


Furlough

by Loftec



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Day 4, GW2016, Gallavich Week 2016, M/M, Post-Canon, busting out, post 5x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7536826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Gallavich Week day 4, July 20th - Busting Out.</p><p>24 hours of Mickey Milkovich getting some of the things he deserves.</p><p> </p><p>Post season 5 canon (some trace elements and ideas from s6 might be in there, but none of the actual alleged 'plot' or 'character development').</p><p>Explicit. Warnings in the start note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furlough

**Author's Note:**

> Explicit for sexual content.
> 
> Warning: minor character deaths (mentioned), funeral setting, shameless misuse of religious custom. Long term incarceration (and subsequent emotional fallout), some brief mentions of canon abuse and drug use. Profuse profanity.

.

 

 

”On your feet, Milkovich.”

Mickey frowns and defiantly finishes the sentence he’s reading before looking up. 

”Why?” he tries, just because, lowering his book and sandwiching his finger between the pages to mark his place. Thompson lightly hits his stick against the bars as he starts walking away.

”Now,” he demands before disappearing out of sight. Mickey spares half a second trying to find the tiny piece of toilet paper he’d been using for a bookmark before he rolls his eyes and quickly folds down a corner. Hamill’s gonna give him hell for it.

”Fuck,” he mutters to himself as he heaves himself off the bunkbed and takes off after the CO, who’s already down by the gates. He wants to bitch and question this sudden call for movement, what looks like it’s gonna be a trip to the warden’s office, or worse, fucking Dr Goodman’s office, but moving past the other cells he’s already attracted more attention than he’d prefer so he keeps his mouth shut. Vic and Tom are glaring suspiciously as he walks past their bunk, Wall exclaiming a bored ’field trip!’ and stirring up a litany of wolf whistling and aimless shouting. Likely is he’s heading for trouble, but being singled out like this always kicks up a kind of misplaced wave of jealous taunting through the block. It’s an infectious thing, Mickey’s been on the other side of the bars shouting stupid ass nonsense enough times to know it. You don’t want to be singled out in a place like this, you don’t wanna be noticed.

Keep your fucking head down, Milkovich. 742 days left.

”Dinner and a movie?” he asks Thompson as they reach the end of the block, and a CO Mickey hasn’t bothered learning the name of yet opens the gate to let them through. The kid is fresh faced and eager and Mickey thinks he’ll probably be gone within the year, one way or another. It takes a special kind of person to be a correctional officer, and some just don’t got it. Mickey couldn’t fucking do it.

Thompson says nothing. He’s usually up for some verbal sparring, a little back and forth, and when Mickey can talk circles around his cellmate all day if he wanted, shooting the shit with Thompson usually makes for a nice change. Mickey wouldn’t go as far as calling it some kinda unlikely fucking friendship, he’s pretty sure the guard wouldn’t hesitate for a second to beat the crap outta him if Mickey stepped out of line, but they’ve got a companionable sort of rapport going and he appreciates it. Thompson offers no explanation this time, though, as he silently ushers Mickey through the gate, past the surveillance station and the two COs there following their movements curiously. Mickey scowls at them and almost bumps into Thompson when the guy abruptly stops and turns. He doesn’t get any crap for it, instead Thompson holds up his hands to get him to do the same.

”Think you should buy me dinner first, at least,” Mickey complains drily, but holds out his hands and lets the CO cuff him. So they’re going to the warden’s office; Pfister likes it when everyone in the room knows their proper place beneath him.

”And you should probably stop talking,” Thompson tells him, none of the usual snarky bite in his tone. Mickey picks up his eyebrows and purses his lips together. He can do that, no problem. He walks behind Thompson through the corridors, past cellblock after cellblock and eventually through the yard to the central tower. Their path is covered by two layers of chickenwire, sides and above alike, and Mickey wouldn’t be surprised if it continued underneath their feet, hidden in the dirt. Looking at the sky as they walk he takes a slow, deep breath and lets his eyes focus on the shape of a lonely cloud in the distance. Try hard enough to settle your focus far away and it’s almost like you can’t see the cage at all. It’s one of those things that have become so ingrained in Mickey he doesn’t even think about it anymore, if he gets the chance to step outside even for a second he’ll take that breath and search for anything to help him pull focus. He’s never been a cloud guy before, but now they’re nothing short of fucking poetic.

CO Fenwick is stationed by the door at the other end, and he readjusts his weapon before he takes out his keys and opens the door to central. Thompson takes a step to the side like a true gentleman.

”No please,” Mickey insists, completely forgetting his previous silent agreement to hold his tongue, picking up his still linked hands to gesture at the open door, ”after you.”

Thompson just stares at him until he gives up and walks inside. Mickey’s learned not to worry too much over the years, being in here. It’s a power play same as everything else; the COs like knowing things the inmates don’t, taking every and all opportunity to demonstrate the old proverb that knowledge is power, and that as a prisoner you’re entitled to fuck all of either. Usually it’s to do with stupid shit like revoked privileges, or surprise inspections, or an unusually shitty menu. Thompson doesn’t seem to enjoy the power play today though, and Mickey doesn’t know what that means, finds himself almost longing for pain and humiliation. He’s learnt how to deal with that shit, compartmentalize it. Thompson’s uncharacteristically severe silence unnerves him, and every blind step closer to the warden’s office fills him with an increasing sense of dread.

He’s so far away from everyone and everything he loves and there’s absolutely nothing he can do if anything were to happen while he’s in here. Sometimes he thinks he might not even find out; there could be an accident, or a fire, or a drive by, anything. Who would tell him? Who would visit him then? Breathe, asshole. It’s fine. In, out, in, out, 1449, 742.

Pfister’s secretary is a smart looking young man, always in a nice suit and his thin silver glasses. He nods at Thompson when they enter the waiting room, and gestures towards the closed door at the other end. Mickey vaguely registers that he’s on the phone, the receiver stuck between his shoulder and ear, and Mickey’s feet won’t fucking move. Thompson takes him by the elbow and leads him forward with a firm grip.

There’s a woman in the warden’s office, dressed head to toe in black lace. She’s signing some papers under Pfister’s helpful scrutiny, sitting on the edge of his desk in front of her and pointing out the necessary spots in the document. They don’t look up when Mickey and Thompson enter, so Thompson has them linger by the door until they’re called forward. There’s a beat cop standing a couple of steps behind the woman and Mickey thinks he might recognize him. Maybe the guy’s arrested him, at some point. Maybe they all kinda look the same. His face is carefully neutral but Mickey thinks he gives him a small nod when their eyes meet. Mickey glares at him for a second longer than he probably should, then he shifts his stance and bows his head like a habit, stares at the gleaming metal linking his wrists. 

”Mickey, dorogoj.” 

Mickey whips his head back up at the familiar voice saying his name. The term of endearment that once was a ruse and now, now it’s just comfort. When he looks at her, the woman stands up and folds her veil over head like they’re on some kind of goddamned gameshow and this is the big reveal.

”Svetlana, what the-,” Mickey starts but snaps his mouth shut and takes half a step back. Thompson’s at his back with a hand barely touching him right between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t know if it’s meant for comfort or warning.

”Mickey,” she says again, and steps towards him. It’s such a pussy fucking move, but four years of strict rules compel him to shrink back as far as he can and put his hands up, keeping her at a distance. Part of him hates himself for it, but he glances at the warden for permission and while his stony face doesn’t give much away he nods his head ever so slightly. It’s enough. Mickey lowers his hands and looks back at Svetlana.

”The fuck, Svet?” he asks, desperately trying to think of what could have happened to warrant this, tries to not think about it at all. Svetlana takes a careful step closer and this time Mickey doesn’t shy away, instead he awkwardly lifts his still linked wrists and carefully lowers his arms around her. Her usually stoic face looks completely heartbroken as it disappears out of view and snuggles against his neck, her arms grasping him in a strong embrace. His mobility is still limited but he does his best to hold her, one hand able to reach a shoulder and rub it in a passably soothing way. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, no one’s been allowed to touch him like this in four long years.

Then she picks up her head a little, and so quietly Mickey might as well have missed it she whispers in his ear; ”be sad.”

It’s such a strange request and he thinks he must look like the human equivalent of a question mark when he glances at the warden over his grieving wife’s shoulder. Before he has time to say anything, however, Svetlana leans back as far as she can and catches his gaze.

”Your father is dead,” she says, eyes hard and searching a stark contrast to her unusually soft tone, ”another aneurism, doctor said, nothing they could do.”

Mickey tries to process this information but it’s like the situation won’t click, it’s like he’s in a scene and he’s forgotten all of his lines. Terry can’t be dead, because Mickey has been expecting to get that call for years and it never played out like this. 

”What?” he croaks out and realizes that he’s sounding more annoyed than sad when Svetlana looks like she’s about ready to smack him.

”Your wife has signed all the paperwork and taken care of everything,” the warden tells him, picking up the wad of papers for show as he walks around his large wooden desk and sits down, ”we’re releasing you to her care for 24 hours to attend your father’s wake. You will remain monitored, restrained and uniformed, and you will be accompanied at all times by Officer Markovich.”

”Who?” Mickey disentangles himself from Svetlana as she takes a step back, ducking her head so he can release her without knocking her ridiculous little hat-and-veil getup out of place.

”You remember Tony?” Svetlana mumbles, stepping to the side so Mickey can get a clear view of the cop he’d barely paid attention to earlier. ”Lives on North Wallace.”

He wants to ask and question and question and question, because none of this is making any sense, but burning a hole through all other thoughts is _24 hours_. He doesn’t know what it means, but it sounds like it might be 24 hours different from the 1449 other 24 hours he’s just lived through day to day, and he doesn’t want to waste one minute of them standing in the warden’s office bitching about the small print.

”Mickey,” Officer Markovich, _Tony_ , he’s seen him around, _Ian used to talk about him_ , gets down on one knee at Mickey’s feet, ”excuse me.”

Mickey wants to back away, or maybe kick him in the head, but when he realizes what Tony is doing he inches his right foot forward so the cop can lift up the hem of his orange pant leg a little and secure a bulky monitor around his ankle. Then Tony gets up on his feet again and looks from Thompson to the warden.

”Sir,” he says with a nod at Pfister and it sounds more like a question than anything else, as though he’s as eager as Mickey to get the hell outta there.

”On behalf of Stateville Correctional Center and the Illinois Department of Corrections, I’m sorry for your loss,” Pfister actually sounds like he means it and Mickey can’t imagine why, ”that said it’s my duty to tell you that you will be severely punished if you break any of the agreed upon conditions of your furlough.”

He looks up at Mickey over the edge of his narrow glasses, his steady glare severe and cold as always. But there’s something there, a different kind of hint of enjoyment than the one that’s there when someone’s about to get 24 hours in the hole.

”If you so much as fart in the wrong direction, I will personally see to it that you never make parole,” he continues, pointing at Mickey for emphasis, ”your wife is essentially your legal guardian for the next 24 hours and as such she will be held accountable for any and all infringement committed by you. We will not be lenient with either of you if you screw this up, Milkovich. If you have questions, I suggest you ask her, save us all some time.”

Mickey can only shake his head, _no questions_ , and then nods nonsensically, looking to Svetlana. 24 fucking hours.

”Let’s go home,” she says.

The car ride is quiet. Mickey’s in the back with Svetlana, she’s got her hand on his thigh like she’s unwilling to break the physical connection. It makes Mickey uncomfortable in a way, he’s never liked the way she insisted on touching him. Not when they were strangers, or first married, or eventually reluctant friends. He doesn’t shake her off or move out of reach though, stronger than the discomfort is this sudden need to just _be touched_ , to feel any kind of affection. It’s roaring and starving and fucking desperate, and it fills him with a strange sense of shame he didn’t think he had in him to feel anymore. 

He shifts his hands a little, rolls his shoulders to get rid of some of the tension. One of the cuffs chafe against his skin and the chains catch on the hairs on his arm when he clasps his hands together and fits them between his thighs. He catches Tony’s eye for a second in the rear view mirror and holds it until Tony seems distracted by a left turn and looks away.

Mickey leans his head back against the seat and gazes out the window at the city slowly creeping by. It’s so familiar, but entirely different. The glass makes him think that maybe he’s still not on the outside, that there’s still a barrier between him and everything else. He’s watching life go by from yet another cell.

There’s a digital clock on the corner they’re driving past, 5:21. Rush hour. Everybody else in this slow creeping traffic’s going home, but Mickey thinks they probably know what home is, where they’re going and why. Mickey thought he knew once, but not now. 23 hours, 39 minutes.

”Is he really dead?” he asks, and catches himself by surprise. Of all the things he’s afraid to ask, this is not what he expected would come out on top. Maybe it’s the thing he’s the least afraid of. He is, he’s so afraid, but not of this.

”Yes,” Svetlana confirms, her fingers digging into his thigh as though to comfort. It hurts a little, but it’s not bad.

”And why,” he says and swallows, afraid, so fucking afraid to somehow break the spell by questioning it, ”why the fuck would they let me out for that?”

Svetlana hums, and when Mickey looks at her she’s got this pleased smile fighting to break out in the corner of her mouth. She presses her lips together and focuses her attention on her hand, long nails scratching and fingers smoothing the coarse orange fabric over his leg.

”Might’ve exaggerated husband’s relationship with fathers,” she says, face calm but voice full of mirth, ”with Terry, and with the Almighty.”

”I’m not hearing this,” Tony informs them dutifully. Mickey glares at him and then back at Svetlana.

”The almighty what?” They’ve been talking in riddles for four years and Mickey can’t believe it but he’s actually nostalgic for the days when she’d been direct with him; scary as fuck, but always direct. She points meaningfully at the ceiling.

”We looked it up,” she says, clearly pleased with herself, ”can get away with anything if you have right religion. So maybe we said Terry has changed, more Catholic, full of religious remorse. And maybe we said you are very private but devout believer. You have catholic wedding, catholic baptism for son, was not hard to make believe you want proper wake, want last chance to make things right with dead father. So what Terry was monster, a child’s love is complicated. Even warden understands this.”

Mickey eyes her warily. ”You didn’t kill him, did you?”

”I’m definitely not hearing this!” Tony exclaims. They ignore him.

”No,” Svetlana isn’t entirely convincing, ”just waited.”

”Jesus,” Mickey mutters and looks out the window again. He knows where they are now, but the reality of it doesn’t really want to sink in. There had been a wake for his mother when she died but he supposes it’d mostly been for his uncles’ benefit, Terry had paid his respects at the bar getting blindingly drunk and carried home by his children early in the morning. Mickey’d been locked up that time too, his first spring fling with juvie. He’d stayed up all night in his cell after he’d gotten Mandy’s call, tried to make some sort of ceremony out of it and maybe feel whatever sorrow he felt over the loss in one sitting. In privacy, in the dark. She’d been a pretty shit mother, but she’d been the only one he’d ever had. He felt something then, something of which there isn’t even a shadow left in him now.

Ian had visited him the next day, his whole face one big freckle back then, hair like copper and hanging down his eyes. He hadn’t tried to comfort Mickey, somehow the kid must’ve known it probably wouldn’t have gone down well. But he’d been there, talking shit and smiling his dumb obvious smiles, and Mickey hadn’t hated it.

They turn in on Trumbull, and Tony creeps the car to a halt outside the old house. It looks empty, but better than it ever did before. It looks too good for Mickey, like he’s not sure he lives there anymore. He turns to Svetlana only to see her smiling back at him.

”No hurry,” she says, like she can read his mind or something. It pisses him off a little, the digital tell of time on the car’s dash blinking in his periphery, disagreeing with her. But then the flash of anger drowns in the virtual tidal wave of conflicting emotions coursing through him and he breathes, he smothers them down. He’s not used to this, time moving _too fast_ , time in prison is endless. Feelings are simple, there. Love is numb. 23 hours and 35 minutes. 

”He in there?” he asks, quietly, and swallows thickly as he looks up at her again. She meets his eyes for a few seconds but doesn’t say anything, and he has no idea what it means. Then she opens her door and steps out, and Mickey flinches when the door on his side suddenly opens for him. He hadn’t noticed that Tony had left the car already.

He steps out awkwardly, grips at the handle with his linked hands and shuffles himself best he can out on the sidewalk. Tony closes the door behind him and Svetlana steps up next to them, but Mickey pays them little mind. He stares up at his old house like it’s haunted.

”I know life’s not been easy,” Mickey starts at the sound of Tony’s voice, much less formal than it’d been in the warden’s office, ”one day hardly makes up for that.”

Mickey frowns and twists a little to get a look at the cop’s kind, open face. To his great surprise, Tony’s got his keys out and gestures for Mickey to hold up his hands. The click and jingle of the cuffs falling off his already sore wrists is like fucking music to his ears.

”Your people love you, Mickey,” Tony says, hooking the cuffs to his belt and steadily meeting Mickey’s incredulous glare, ”and I trust you. My career, my whole life, is in your hands. Please don’t make me regret this.”

Mickey looks down at his hands, habitually massaging his wrists, and then back up at Tony. Tony the cop, he can’t remember if he’s ever said a kind word to the guy. Not that he’d been too generous with kind words to anyone back then. Not to Mandy, not to Ian. He’d tried, fuck he’d tired. But it’d never seemed enough.

He can’t help thinking that this act of kindness and faith is grossly misplaced. He’s supposed to be under constant supervision, he’s supposed to be in his glaringly obvious orange, in his cuffs. His temporary freedom is supposed to be entirely conditional. Tony giving him any kind of free range is dangerous. He’s not sure he won’t fuck them all over and bolt the second he gets a moment to himself.

He thinks of his son, and of his wife. He thinks of sad, green eyes and brave fucking smiles, through thick plexiglass. He thinks with his goddamned bleeding heart and his stupidly firm and settled roots and he knows he’s not going anywhere. Fuck, he’s not going anywhere.

He nods, because he can’t think and he can’t speak. Tony puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and Mickey feels his whole body sway with the contact. 

”I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, and this time Mickey could swear he’s not talking about Terry.

He should probably say ’thank you’, or ’fuck you’, or _anything_ , but maybe he made a deal with a wicked sea witch and traded in his voice for this chance to once again _walk amongst men_ , because the words simply won’t form. He played cards with Timber the other week and the guy looks at least twenty percent genie, and five percent octopus. Maybe he wished for something then, without thinking. _Shit_ , that fucking mermaid VHS’s been on endless rotation in the rec room, fuck knows why, he’s practically brainwashed at this point. He’s even read the original fairytale, he found a worn ass copy of it in the library a couple years ago. It’s better; a shit-ton more badass and, like, fucking _relatable_. Thousand knives at every step and foam on the fucking water, all that melodramatic bullshit, he gets it, he’s fucking lived it.

Not that he’s some kind of fifteen year old chick fish, nor Ian some kind of fucking prince charming, but whatever. It’s metaphorical.

”Mickey?” 

He snaps out of his thoughts, like he’s falling back into his body. He’s standing on the damned sidewalk outside his house, _outside_. Like an orange smear on reality. His ankle monitor is a heavy reminder of his conditional freedom, but his elbows crackle and pop as he’s flexing his arms away from his sides a little, tries to keep himself from habitually clasping his hands together at his front, or behind his back.

Tony’s back in his car but he’s not driving away, he looks already settled in for the long haul with a book and a fucking donut. Mickey turns to see Svetlana standing by the fence, waiting for him. He slowly follows her through it and up the steps. The house looks tidy on the outside, it’s still no palace or anything but all the casual garbage and debris is pretty much all gone and the lawn’s almost looking like a fucking lawn, not a weed jungle come junkyard like he remembers it. The door isn’t broken either, and it’s locked; Svetlana opens it with a key as though this is just another home, and something worth protecting. She walks inside and leaves the door open for him to follow in his own time.

The dim afternoon sun is the only reason the living room isn’t in complete darkness. Through the door Mickey can see a clock on the wall by the kitchen doorway. The hallway is clear, a couple of coats on hooks and different sized shoes on the floor. Small shoes, small muddy boots. 23 hours, 26 minutes.

He takes another deep breath of the fresh free air and grabs the door handle for support as he steps inside, closing the door carefully behind him. Svetlana isn’t there, Mickey thinks he can hear her in the kitchen.

The living room is clean and almost minimal compared to how he remembers it, and even more so now with the couch pushed against a wall and the plain-looking wooden coffin placed center stage. The kitchen chairs have been set up next to it, and there are flowers. Not a lot of them, but fucking flowers. Someone spent money on a dead Terry Milkovich, and for reasons presumably other than fear.

He steps towards the coffin, hands flexing, balling into fists down his sides. This is why he’s here, right? To look at the old bastard, to mourn him and see him through to the afterlife. The casket is open, and the bulk of Terry domes over the edge of it, he’s being buried in his Sunday best. Mickey hasn’t seen that suit since the last time his old man went to court and Mickey was still young enough to worry about the outcome.

He thinks he probably needs to see him, for closure or some shit, but part of him wants anything but. He doesn’t know why he’s been let out of prison for this, or why Mandy or his brothers aren’t here with him. Another step closer and he stares at that familiar profile. He looks peaceful and Mickey hardly recognizes him. Terry never looked peaceful when he lived. Word is he changed, the last few years, albeit not by his own free will. Alcoholic brain damaged simpleton or not, it hardly corrects any of the shit he put Mickey and his siblings through when he was at full capacity, and consciously abusive and wholeheartedly mean. Mickey tries to pity him, now, looking at his weathered pale face, but feels nothing.

”Here,” Svetlana says, coming out of the kitchen, and Mickey expects her to give him something when she steps up to him, but all he gets is a sloppy kiss on the cheek, ”I’m leaving, Tony is out in the car and I will be back in one hour. Change clothes, take your time, yes?”

Mickey frowns and wants to question her orders, because that’s who he really is, not this pliant fucking cog he’s become. Falling in line, keeping his head down. But he still seems struck mute and she easily marches past him as though he has no say in the matter, and like there isn’t a fucking corpse in the room. She locks the door behind her when she leaves.

Mickey blinks after her and fights against the panic pushing at him from inside; the sound of a lock, the heavy solitude, death at his back. Terry was always big, he filled every room he walked into, he could not be ignored. He’s small now, small and still and irrelevant. But Mickey can still feel his presence, knows he’s lying there behind him, thinks he might have power yet to spring back to life.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, in, one, out, two three four, the dusty air smells faintly of fried bacon and mostly like death. A sickly sweet mix of flowers at the end of their prime. He might as well do what she said, maybe by the time she’s come back he’ll have found his voice and can better understand what he’s supposed to be doing with himself. He glances at the clock and walks towards his old room.

23 hours and 19 minutes.

Ian’s there. He’s sitting on Mickey’s old bed, waiting, and Mickey suddenly knows what he’s supposed to be doing with himself, nothing’s ever been this clear. Ian is full of nervous energy, standing up and running the palms of his hands over his thighs when Mickey steps into the room. Mickey stops dead in his tracks, hand still on the door, eyes on this goddamned vision of a man.

”Ian,” he thinks he says, but maybe he only feels the name, thinks it, tastes it, stuck on the back of his tongue. Either way he must have made some kind of noise because it propels Ian forward, suddenly, and then he’s right there in front of him, close enough to touch. He stops when Mickey takes a step back, the bedroom door closing behind him when his back forces it shut. Ian looks like he’s trying to figure him out, eyes searching and brows furrowed, he’s practically shaking and Mickey thinks he might be holding himself back for his sake, waiting for Mickey to give him permission to reach out, to feel, to touch. Mickey’s mind is fucking screaming for him to do it, but his body is still stupidly withdrawn. 1449 days since Ian last touched him.

Mickey’s arms are made out of lead but somehow he gets them to move, and when he feels Ian under his cold palms the weight lifts from his limbs, from his heart. He’d somehow managed to forget how easy this is, buried instincts flooding back as he pulls Ian in, close, and wraps his arms around his hunched shoulders. He buries his face against his neck, and digs his hands deep into his hair, pushes his whole body forward to leave no space, no doubt.

Ian is here. And he stops shaking, he goes completely still against Mickey, strong arms snaking around his chest and waist, pulling him in even closer. Firm and crushing. His nose is cold against Mickey’s neck, but his breath is warm over his skin and his lips are dry and alive against his pulse.

”Ian,” he says again and he can hear his own wrecked voice this time, muffled against Ian’s shirt, ”fuck, Ian.”

”It’s okay,” Ian mumbles nonsensically, because Mickey really doesn’t think it is, can’t see how it could be, ”it’s okay, Mick, I got you, I got you.”

Mickey feels like he’s got a million things he wants to say, all those visits when they’ve had to get by on lingering looks and hidden meanings alone. There are an equal number of things he wants to do, now that there are no physical barriers between them, no cameras or prying guards. Most of all though, most of fucking all, he never wants to let go, he thinks he could stand here and desperately squeeze himself against Ian until they’re no longer two separate bodies, and nothing could pry them apart again. He thinks he’s missed kissing Ian, fucking him, talking to him, but all of that kinda fell away the second he laid eyes on him; all of it became this background white noise of want and need next to the absolute fucking necessity to simply hold him, and be held.

”You okay?” he asks, and the question kicks his hands into action, squeezing at Ian’s neck and combing back up his hair; grabbing and feeling along his back and around again to envelop his shoulders, checking, making sure. He asks him the same question every week, and Ian always answers the same way, _fine_ , even on days when he looks like a ghost or when his whole body is strumming with barely contained and unfocused energy. This time is different.

”Am now,” Ian practically sighs against his shoulder, and it’s the first time in four years that Mickey believes him. 

”Jesus, fuck,” Mickey mutters and tries his fucking hardest to hug Ian even closer, his arms starting to ache. He blinks furiously to keep from crying, hand leaving Ian’s hair long enough to wipe the wetness from his eyes. Ian must have taken this as some kind of permission to let go, because the asshole is taking a step back and he’s not looking Mickey in the eye as he walks them backwards and further into the room. Mickey follows him, stuck in his magnetic forcefield, eyes on his pale face. He’s so close, finally, and so goddamned real.

”C’mon,” he mumbles and still doesn’t meet Mickey’s eyes as he slowly starts working on the buttons down Mickey’s state issued shirt. Mickey’s first hopeful and automatic thought is of sex, but Ian isn’t trying to kiss him and truthfully it doesn’t even really feel like he’s trying to _undress him_ , but rather peel him out of layers of time and pain and hurt. Mickey looks down and sees himself quite for the first time as Ian must see him, with the uniform as another prickly barrier between them. Orange never really was his color.

He lets Ian take it off. Watches him move around him carefully, hands barely touching him at first but when he’s finally pushing the shirt off his shoulders it’s like he’s caressing each revealed inch of skin with his heavy, focused gaze. Then his hands follow, fingertips pushing the fabric over Mickey’s collarbones, shoulders, side of his arms, leading the way and sweeping across his stomach and back up his chest, watching every measured movement like a hawk.

Ian’s not touching him with any other intention than to simply touch him, seemingly content with just making sure he’s actually there, and whole, and _fine_. Mickey’s body has other ideas however and Mickey swallows over his ridiculous embarrassment, his dick hard and so fucking obvious between them. It’s not like it’s news that Ian’s got this effect on him, but still, any and all chill he’s ever had has been lost with four years of forced celibacy with only his hand for company during the long lonely nights in his cell, trying to tune out the loud snoring from the bunk below. 

He tries for a second to will it away, but Ian’s feathered touch and his deep, familiar smell wraps him up, warps his mind, and fills his cock relentlessly. He wants Ian to touch him with purpose, he wants it so bad. But he’s also really not ready to do something like that yet. Fuck, he’s so messed up. Two hours ago he was still in his cell, with at least another two years to go before this was even a possibility. Now he’s standing in front of the object of every wet dream and cheesy fantasy he’s ever had, and none of what he’s feeling is straightforward or easy.

Ian doesn’t say anything about it, even though there’s no way he hasn’t noticed. Instead he steps closer again and dips his head to slowly, delicately, press his lips against Mickey’s bare shoulder, once, twice. Down his chest, once, collarbone, nuzzling his nose lightly against his throat. Mickey’s breath catches and he closes his eyes.

”I don’t-,” he says and, fuck, he’s become so weak and utterly fucked up, ”I can’t-”

Ian nods silently and picks up his head to rest his forehead against Mickey’s temple for a moment, hums like he understands. Mickey doesn’t understand at all, so he’s relieved to imagine that at least one of them does. Ian grabs him gently by the hips and turns them around until Mickey feels the edge of the bed hit against the back of his knees. 

”I got you,” he mumbles again, lips pressed against Mickey’s temple, and Mickey trusts him, feels himself both relax and light up under Ian’s hands. He pulls at the drawstring on Mickey’s pants, rocks back a little so he can see what his hands are doing as his fingers fumble for a second with the knot. He untangles it and carefully pushes his hands down the waistband, palms flat against Mickey’s thighs. He’s careful, so fucking careful, when he pulls the elastic out and down, pushing his pants and underwear down and with the same motion trailing his hands to the back of Mickey’s thighs. Mickey sighs, deeply, letting out this long, shaky breath of air that stirs through Ian’s hair when he bends down enough to make sure the pants drop all the way to the floor, pooling around Mickey’s feet.

He straightens up and finally, fucking finally meets Mickey’s eyes again. He’s big, Mickey’s forgotten how good it feels to have his space so entirely invaded by Ian and his shoulders and chest and eyes. He looks good, Mickey’s not forgotten that, but it still occurs to him as though for the first time, every time. He wants to kiss him, but it doesn’t feel like this is a moment for that.

This feels like a ceremony, like Ian needs this in order to shed the last four years away and find the guy in there he can recognize. Maybe Mickey needs it too.

Ian crowds him closer to the bed then, and Mickey doesn’t break their eye contact as he slowly sits down, the sheets smooth against his bare ass. Ian steps in between his legs and puts his hands on his neck, thumbs gently caressing his face, along his jawline, up his cheeks. Mickey blinks up at him and thinks that if this turns out to be it, that they end up right here for the rest of his few precious hours of freedom, then he’d be fine with that. He wouldn’t mind. But Ian always was more ambitious than him, and he bends his head down until he’s no more than an inch away from Mickey’s parted lips, and then gently pulls Mickey closer. Mickey can’t remember ever being kissed like that, soft and slow and undemanding. No agenda or purpose beyond finding some kind of lost connection.

Ian is soft and warm against his chapped lips, and he takes Mickey’s fucking breath away. It’s over too soon, and Ian abandons Mickey’s face to smooth his hands down along his body, and kneels down on the floor in front of him. He grabs one of Mickey’s shoes with both hands and carefully pries it off his foot. Then he does the same with the next one, placing them neatly together, halfway in under the bed. He takes off his stinky, dirty socks, and Mickey would cringe if he wasn’t so entranced, just watching him do it.

Then he grabs the bunched up orange fabric of the fallen pants and picks up Mickey’s feet one after the other to release them, saying nothing of the angrily blinking ankle monitor, carefully setting his bare feet back down against the worn carpet. Mickey’s naked as the day he was born, stomach trembling slightly under the cold air in the room and his labored breathing, his dick hard and warm between them. Ian puts his hands on his thighs, rubs them slowly up and down, and fucking licks his lips.

Mickey wants to tell him to just leave it be, it’ll go away. He’s dealt with this a lot in prison. Most of the time he’s walking around like a fucking eunuch and nothing really gets him going, but then there are the other times when any manner of tenderness or heat will kindle something inside him, blazing up without warning. The luxury of enough privacy to go take care of himself when that happens isn’t always a given. So, fuck that, fuck leaving it fucking be. He really wants Ian to touch him, in every way possible, until he’s spent and numb and maybe a little more like himself again. Like the guy who used to be Ian’s.

So when Ian looks up at him with a question in his eyes, Mickey grabs at the sheet by his sides and nods. Swallowing thickly as Ian’s hands travel further up his legs and he shuffles his body closer, his warm breath fanning over Mickey’s sensitive skin. He closes his eyes and bites down on his bottom lip, hard, when Ian takes him in his mouth. He has to focus on his uneven breathing to try and relax, letting his shoulders fall and fingers unclench, loosen his jaw and lick at his throbbing, bitten lip. Ian is warm and wet, and on a fucking mission. He takes him all the way, again and again and again, hugging his arms around Mickey to grab his ass and hold him still. 

Mickey moans and fucking keens under him, useless to do anything but sit there and accept what he’s given, and carefully, oh so carefully touch his hands to the sides of Ian’s bobbing head, sinking his fingers deep into his hair. He thinks it looks darker than it did, but maybe it’s just the soft yellow light of his bedroom in contrast to the harsh whites of prison.

He comes really quickly and he’s actually glad for it; happy to take the edge off a little. When the stars behind his eyes start to fade and he looks down at Ian nosing and kissing at his abdomen, still hugging him close, it’s through a fog of heavy tears. He’s crying like some overwhelmed bitch that can’t handle a simple orgasm and he can’t muster enough energy to give a crap, so he sniffs and tilts his head back, hoping it’ll pass. It doesn’t, he fucking sobs and shakes and can’t control himself for shit. He doesn’t notice that Ian’s moved at all until he’s right there, knees boxing in his hips and hands on his neck again, thumbs wiping at his wet cheeks. He kisses his face, over and over again, slowly and meticulously, under his eyes, down his nose, between his eyebrows, he covers every inch until Mickey no longer can tell if his blushing fucking face is wet from his own tears or Ian’s saliva. It’s pretty fucking gross, and he kinda loves it. 

”Fuck, Ian, c’mon,” he mutters, because the tears have all been kissed away or whatever, and it’s about damn time he gets Ian’s teasing lips back on his mouth. Ian seems to both understand his inarticulate request and agree with it, mouthing his way to meet Mickey in a sloppy kiss, eager and ungraceful and urgent.

”Do you want me to-?” Mickey mumbles against him, one hand grabbing at Ian’s ass and the other moving up under his shirt, fingers slipping down behind his belt buckle. Ian groans against him, and Mickey grins wide for what feels like the first time that day when Ian sits back by an inch and the side of his mouth quirks up in a small smile.

”No,” he says, to Mickey’s profound disappointment, ”I mean yeah, but not now. Thought you might wanna take a shower.”

Mickey frowns, because no, he’d much rather stay right here and do any manner of dirty things with Ian right now, than go take a fucking shower. He digs his fingers deeper into the soft skin just above this dumbass’ behind and hopes that gets his opinion across, loud and clear. Ian grins wider and it’s fucking beautiful.

”We got time,” he says quietly, as though he actually fucking believes that, ”if you want me to go with you, I will, but I figured you’d wanna do this yourself.”

”Some fucking privacy in the shower doesn’t actually sound half bad,” Mickey admits, but doesn’t ease up his death grip or move to get up off the bed at all.

Ian huffs and sits down more heavily on Mickey’s thighs, maybe as a way of forcing things along. Fucker’s all muscles and bones, and really too heavy for comfort.

”Svet’s coming back soon,” he says and chuckles when Mickey groans and tips his head back, before lolling it forward again and pressing his nose firmly against Ian’s shoulder, ”hey, couldn’t have done this without her, you know.”

”So I’ll send her a fucking card,” Mickey practically whines, ”thanks for being an awesome wife and facilitating my day of sodomy with my boyfriend, Hallmark still make those, right?”

Ian’s eyes kinda sparkle, and he swoops in for another kiss instead of arguing. And arguing with Ian might be one of Mickey’s favorite things to do, but he doesn’t complain. He pulls back just to make Ian follow, and bites down lightly on his bottom lip when he does. Ian seems stuck between laughing and moaning in response, and either would be enough to make Mickey grin happily against him.

”You should… really stop… distracting…” Ian mumbles, continuously interrupting himself by not maintaining any kind of safe distance to Mickey’s starving mouth. ”Yev’s gonna be here soon.”

Mickey reels back at the mention of his son, hope and dread most likely both obvious on his slack face.

”Hey,” Ian says with a soft smile, almost going crosseyed when he touches his forehead to Mickey’s while still firmly holding his gaze, ”it’s fine.”

”I didn’t-,” Mickey frowns and swallows, mouth suddenly dry, ”I didn’t even fucking ask her about him, man.”

Ian climbs off him and sits down next to him on the bed, instead. Mickey’s arms feel empty and useless without him and he clasps his hands together until his knuckles turn white. Ian silently sneaks his hand in between them, prying them apart, and carefully slots his fingers between Mickey’s, bringing their locked hands over to rest on his thigh.

”He’s doing great,” Ian tells him, voice calm and light, ”you saw him last week, you got nothing to worry about.”

Mickey looks down at his still naked body and frowns. ”Probably should shower, huh?”

Ian brings their hands up to his mouth and presses his lips against the back of Mickey’s, once, and then again, once, twice, across his knuckles.

”’m not going anywhere,” he says.

The hot water doesn’t run out within the first two minutes like it’s done throughout his whole damned childhood, so Mickey stays in there for much longer than he had intended, going in. He scrubs himself clean from head to toe with Ian’s store-brand shower gel, twice over, and even borrows his razor to give himself a nice, slow, close shave once he’s done and dry, towel wrapped around his waist. He feels like a whole new man when he steps back into his bedroom, removing the towel to double-check his shoulders and then ruffle it though his hair. Ian’s gone, but he can hear him move in the other room. It’s kinda nice.

There’s a small pile of clothes folded neatly on the bed, and for a second he’s annoyed at Ian thinking he wouldn’t want to pick something out himself. But that’s some petty ass shit right there so he lets it go, and besides, he’s also slightly curious about what Ian would think he’d wanna wear. Ian might’ve teased him good-naturedly about some of his more fashion forward choices back in the day, but they never had the kind of relationship where they gave a fuck about what the other was wearing. He almost chokes the fuck up again now, though, rifling through Ian’s pick. His favorite comfy jeans, and one of the few t-shirts he never could get himself to take scissors to, soft and worn and familiar. Stuff he used to wear around the house, stuff that used to fit him like a second skin. He picks up the t-shirt and mindlessly puts it to his nose, breathing it in. It smells like detergent and dust, and like home.

”Mick?” Ian calls from the other room, and Mickey stops sniffing his shirt to quickly put it on.

”Yeah?” he says, and clears his throat as he rifles through the clothes for some underwear. He finds a pair of his old boxers and can’t help fucking smiling when he pulls them on. Fuck Stateville and their obsession with fucking bleached out tighty whities. He pats himself happily on the ass and maybe takes a moment to just stand there in his plaid boxer glory, oh the little things in life. Then he pulls on his pants and forgoes his socks and shoes entirely, choosing to let his feet have their feel of freedom too. In the old days you’d have risked stepping in all manner of filth and danger if you tried hippy shit like that in the Milkovich house, but now the floor is looking impressively clean and safe. He walks out into the living room in time to see Ian exit what used to be Mandy’s old room, arms full of blankets.

Mickey meets him half way and takes some of the blankets off his hands, like a real gentleman, but also to unearth Ian from the fluffy mountain.

He smiles gratefully and seems to take a moment to drink in the sight of Mickey in his street clothes, Mickey tossing his blankets over one shoulder and spreading his arms out for a bit of a show.

”Real nice,” Ian smirks, but sounds incredibly genuine. Then his face falls a little as he turns to nod his head towards the living room. ”How would you feel about covering him up?”

Mickey looks the way he’s indicating and almost laughs when he remembers his father’s corpse, just lying there in its coffin like some macabre piece of interior design. The laughter sticks in his throat though, because all of this is a lot of things, but funny ain’t one of them.

”I would feel pretty fucking good about it,” he admits, ”don’t want my kid seein’ this shit, either.”

Ian nods, as though he hadn’t expected anything else, and doesn’t hesitate when he steps towards the coffin and dumps his blankets on one of the chairs. Mickey follows him with a lot more trepidation. 

”There’s a lid,” Ian explains grimly, but matter-of-factly. Mickey tries to not look at his old man as he lays his blankets down on top of Ian’s and walks around the coffin. They grab the lid together and carefully secure it on top, and this close to it Mickey thinks his family probably went with the cheapest option available, the finish is pretty rough and the upholstery a visibly unpleasant polyester. Mickey would have settled for a plastic bag full of the man’s ashes, if he’d been in any position to make decisions on the matter.

”What,” he says, clearing his throat and following Ian’s lead when he starts draping the blankets over the closed coffin, making it look like a strange pile of _anything but a dead body_ for the sake of Yevgeny’s piece of mind, and maybe Mickey’s too, ”what is all this?”

Ian looks at him, confused. Mickey gestures towards the flowers and chairs.

”It’s a wake,” Ian says and clearly tries to not sound too pleased about it, ”we tried to convince them that you’re insanely fucking catholic and would settle for no less than a full week to properly mourn dear old dad, but they said 24 hours would be more than enough. This is all for show, just in case, making arrangements with the funeral home and leaving a convincing paper trail.”

”Do I need to worry about this?” Mickey huffs, because he’s all for a nice con, but he’s not too keen on adding more years to his already heavy-handed punishment.

”Nah,” Ian grins, taking a step back to admire their work, it looks like a bulky blanket fort, ”Tony agreed to give us some space, and has no problem looking the other way so long as we roughly follow the plan.”

”What plan?”

”You and your loving wife sit in wake over night,” Ian recites, looking up at the ceiling, ”reception for the rest of the family in the morning, funeral in the afternoon, straight from the cemetery back to prison.”

Mickey’s stomach knots at hearing it, somehow he’d managed to push that part out of his mind for a little while. He glances at the clock on the wall, 22 hours and 53 minutes.

”Tony’s supposed to be with you at all times,” Ian shrugs, and regards the covered coffin with a critical frown, ”but he’s taking a kinda ’don’t ask don’t tell’ approach to the whole situation, we can do whatever we want so long as he doesn’t have to see it.”

He steps up to the flowers and bends down to pick up one of the sorry looking arrangements, placing it with abundant care on top of the coffin. Mickey crosses his arms and watches him rearrange the flowers on it like it’s a damned table.

”Why?” he says, sounding more upset about it than he really meant to.

Ian shrugs again and glances at Mickey over his shoulder, smiling a little when he sees him. It completely melts Mickey on the inside, his outsides scowling harder to match. ”He’s a good guy, kinda thinks you got the short end of the stick.”

”He the guy your sister broke?” Mickey asks, scrambling through his vague memories for anything that isn’t just _Ian_ , or _family_. Ian scoffs and places the last vase of fucking petunias, or whatever, with the rest.

”Yeah, guess so,” he says and turns around to lean casually against the coffin only to catch himself last second, and thinking better of it shifts his stance and claps his hands behind his back, ”he’s gay now, though.”

”The fuck does that mean?” Mickey complains, jealously and frustration immediately rearing their ugly heads, always close on his trail with their situation being the way it is. Ian, infuriatingly, shrugs again.

”Guess he always was,” he says and his big kind eyes are steady when they lock on to Mickey’s, ”not always easy, that shit.”

Mickey gets that, he really fucking does, but that wasn’t even close to the point he was getting at. Petty, insecure and ugly.

”And what does he want from you, huh,” he says, taste in his mouth bitter like bile, ”doin’ all this shit for some thug he don’t even know.”

”Mick,” Ian sighs, but he’s still smiling, ”he’s risking his livelihood springin’ you outta prison just so I can spend some time with you, don’t think he’s angling to get laid. And if he is he’s barkin’ up the wrong fucking tree, you know that.”

”Fuck do I know?” Mickey mutters and scratches at his neck, but he looks away so Ian won’t see the smile cracking through his scowl. ”Might be a real sick fuck underneath all that wholesome.”

Ian laughs and finally, like how hard does a guy have to work to get some fucking TLC ’round here, fucking finally walks up to Mickey, taking him firmly by the waist and pressing them together.

”He does get paid for his time,” Ian reassures him, even though Mickey stopped caring the second he got close enough to touch, ”and we’re helping him sell his house.”

”Mmh-hm,” Mickey hums, more interested in counting freckles right now than hearing about whoever, even though Tony’s obviously a real stand up guy and Mickey probably owes him a solid after this.

”And Debbie baked him cookies,” Ian’s still talking, words like complete gibberish at this point.

Mickey shuts him up, kisses him until he stops making noise and then until he stops smiling and really, properly, gets into it, arms folding around him tightly. Mickey touches his fingertips to his face, traces his chin with his thumb, and opens up for Ian to really have at him.

There’s a sharp knock at the door and Ian pulls back a little, Mickey reluctantly letting him. He feels slightly stupid for it, but he grabs Ian’s neck and pulls him back in for a quick hug before breaking apart. He glances at the clock, thinking this is not the time for letting pride get in the way of taking what he wants. 22 hours, 41 minutes.

Ian clears his throat and turns to stand next to Mickey, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Mickey smirks and folds his arms across his chest, if only to keep himself from reaching out and grabbing hold of him again, messing him up again.

”All clear,” Ian calls out and grins sheepishly at Mickey’s raised eyebrow, ”not sure how Yev’s gonna take to us bein’… like this.”

He sounds apologetic, like it’s his fault that they’ve had to spend the majority of Yevgeny’s short life acting like they’re just _really good friends_. Mickey nods and uncrosses his arms again to reach out and mindlessly touch Ian’s elbow before he catches himself, quickly letting his hand fall back down his side and focusing on the sound of a key in the door. He’s torn between throwing a punch, giggling like a fucking girl, and desperately collecting what little cool he’s got left when he feels Ian’s dry hand slipping into his, squeezing it gently.

Svetlana is carrying Yevgeny on one hip when she walks through the door, Mickey imagines that he’s already starting to get too big for that shit and immediately he feels the thought seize his insides. This is going to be fucking rough.

”You are decent?” she teases with a dry smirk, her free hand over Yevgeny’s giggling face trying to cover his eyes.

”Dad!” the kid exclaims and starts squirming in his mother’s arms when he sees Mickey. Mickey’s surprised that he even recognizes him in his own clothes like this, unchained. He nods dumbly when his voice doesn’t work and doesn’t notice that Ian’s let go of his hand until he feels him squeeze his left shoulder and move behind him to press his nose quickly against his right, pushing Mickey forwards lightly as he settles into the background.

Yevgeny has gotten down on his own two feet now and Mickey takes a couple of steps forward before he gingerly drops to his knees, holding out his arms.

”Hey kid,” he says gruffly and winces when he sees his son hesitate, probably feeling less brave after the initial flash of recognition and no longer within Svetlana’s immediate protection.

”It’s okay, I know,” Mickey says, not knowing what else to do and simply deciding to say what he himself would want to hear, ”it’s fucking weird, it’s okay. Look.”

He holds up his hands, wiggling his fingers. About once a month, Svetlana manages to get them one of the private rooms for visitation and Mickey’s usually allowed to actually interact with his son then, unless the supervising CO is in some kind of especially fucked up mood. But he’s always in chains, and Yevgeny has been everything from scared to neutral to amused by that fact over the years. When he was still a baby he’d try to eat them, same as everything else, and when he started to understand what the chafed skin and purple bruises meant he’d tried to get them off of Mickey’s wrists himself. Only pushing them deeper into Mickey’s numbed skin and frowning in frustration when they wouldn’t budge. 

Instantly fascinated, Yevgeny forgets his hesitation and steps forward, grabbing on to Mickey’s hands and turning them this way and that, laughing infectiously when the holds them up high and flaps them like wings. Mickey grins, watching him closely, waiting him out.

”That’s nothing, watch this,” he says after a few long minutes and quickly swoops in, grabbing his arms around his son and pulling him off the floor and into a strong embrace. For a split second he’s worried he’s gone too far when thinking the best approach would be to keep things as lighthearted and normal as he possibly could, the same way they long since had decided to treat his weekly visits. But then Yevgeny giggles happily and hugs his skinny little arms around his neck, and Mickey lets out a shaky breath, rocking him a little from side to side and tickling his fingertips gently over the boy’s ribs to distract him from noticing his dad’s overwhelmed state.

”You’re gettin’ big,” Mickey notes, like he wasn’t already painfully aware, and glances up at Svetlana, ”he’s gettin’ big.”

”Mommy,” Yevgeny scrambles out of his arms and runs back to Svetlana, taking her by the hand and staring up at her, ”can I show dad my toys?”

”I think you have to, Zhenya,” Svetlana smiles down at him. 

”C’mon,” Yevgeny turns back to Mickey with a wide toothless grin, he fell on his face just last month knocking one of his front teeth out and by the time he visited Mickey he’d gotten enough stickers and toys and ’you’re such a brave boy’ to show off the gap and the taped up gash down his chin with considerable pride, pleased as anything when Mickey told him he looked ’badass, but be fucking careful next time, alright?’. Mickey thinks the scar almost isn’t noticeable already, when Yevgeny takes him by the hand and tries to pull him up off the floor. 

”I got the best toys, dad,” he brags, before nodding magnanimously, ”you can play with them if you wanna.”

”Gee kid,” Mickey huffs but struggles to his feet and holds on to Yevgeny’s tiny hand as he’s being led through the house, ”that’s real fucking nice of you.”

Fuck fuck fuck, he really needs to stop swearing. He tries to keep it down during visits, usually, but he’s really bad at it. It’s like a nervous tick, Dr Goodman calls it a crutch but what the fuck does he know. Yevgeny makes it really easy for him though, he never seems too bothered with his old man’s foul mouth.

He glances over his shoulder as he’s being pulled into Mandy’s old room, hoping to catch Ian’s eye and maybe get him to come with. He’s happy to spend time with Yevgeny but he’s not gonna pretend that it doesn’t freak him the fuck out. At best he’s an okay dad for about an hour per week, he’s not at all equipped to actually take care of a kid in any kind of real way. Ian’s not following, however, not even looking their way. He’s standing in close, quiet conversation with Svetlana, one of his big hands on her shoulder as they speak. Mickey scowls to himself as they disappear out of view and he forces himself to focus on Yevgeny, leading him further into the room.

”Holy-,” he starts, catching himself for once as he glances around the room, ”fudge.” 

All of Mandy’s stuff’s gone, completely, instead one of the walls is covered by a row of mirrored wardrobes, making the small room look at least twice as big. The small bed in the corner helps too, freeing up a lot of space on the floor. The walls have been cleaned up, he can’t spot any of the million tiny holes from Mandy’s posters and pictures she used to pin to every bit of clear surface, and instead it’s been painted a dusty, calm blue. It’s not a super fancy room or whatever, but it’s actually a proper kids’ room, one the likes of which the Milkovich house has never seen before. It’s pleasant, it’s clean. There’s a big, round, shaggy carpet on the worn hardwood floor, yellow like the sun, with toys littered all over it, around it. There’s even a fucking mobile hanging over the bed, slowly turning in the still air. Yevgeny lets go of him to run across the room and rifle through a big chest in the corner, presumably filled with more toys, and Mickey takes the opportunity to walk over to the bed and carefully nudge at the mobile with the tip of his pointer finger.

”Ian made that,” Yevgeny tells him, dumping a pile of stuff on the bed and sitting down on the floor next to it. Mickey looks at the mobile again, at the stripped branches tied together with twine to balance just so, and the random stuff hanging from the structure on thin thread. It’s simple enough, but he imagines the random trinkets hold some meaning or another, secrets between Ian and Yevgeny. He touches it again, gives it a little push this time, and it spins nicely through the air.

He sits down on the bed, next to Yevgeny’s pile of toys.

”This is Tiger,” Yevgeny announces and solemnly shoves a small plush tiger into Mickey’s hands, ”he’s a bit old.”

”Okay,” Mickey says, completely lost for words. He’d never really been a natural parent, not when the kid was tiny and helpless, or later when all he ever could do is try and talk to him, about whatever; anything. Yevgeny is pretty easygoing and chatty though, so he’s always got something to say when they visit and Mickey’s mostly happy to let the kid take the lead. He never has much to say himself, not looking to update the happy-go-lucky child on the prison’s weekly shivvings, beatings, or godawful meatloaf. Discounting the meatloaf, Mickey’s never directly involved in any of those stories, anyway. Most days are just dull, and frustrating, and lonely as all hell. Seeing Yevgeny and Ian, and even Svetlana, once a week helps a little, but it also really doesn’t sometimes.

”This is Train,” Yevgeny continues, undeterred, pushing a worn plastic locomotive onto Mickey’s lap.

”I’m startin’ to pick up on some kinda pattern here,” Mickey notes, dutifully examining the toy train and nodding his approval. Yevgeny ignores him, which is fucking fair enough, frankly. Coming in to his home and sassing the kid about his name-giving skills is just rude as fuck.

”Toadbert,” Yevgeny announces, kinda derailing Mickey’s theory, and without looking holds up a plastic frog for Mickey to take. It looks a lot like a dog’s chew toy and when Mickey tries it out with a gentle squeeze, it whines and whistles in response. 

”Cool frog, man,” he says weakly and thinks he probably sounds like an idiot, but Yevgeny beams up at him like he won some kinda prize. Mickey holds up the frog and squeezes it again, this time with more purpose. It emits a loud squeak and Yevgeny giggles happily. This isn’t so damned hard, Mickey can do this.

He awkwardly lowers himself to the floor, careful to make sure that his baggy jeans still cover his ankle monitor as he settles in with his back against the bed. He lines up the tiger, train and frog on the floor.

”It’s a toad,” Yevgeny says, and stops smiling to nod seriously when Mickey looks at him. Mickey thinks he maybe hesitated a little to say anything, but he’s real happy the kid decided not to be afraid to correct Mickey’s uneducated ass, in the end.

”Yeah?” Mickey picks it up again, sure looks like a frog to him. ”How can you tell?”

”Toads got short stubby legs,” Yevgeny says, sorting through his toys as he speaks, ”like me.”

”And me,” Mickey admits, raising an eyebrow when Yevgeny eyes him doubtfully.

”An’ they got lots of warts and things,” he continues, glancing uncertainly at the very smooth plastic toy, ”an’ also his name is Toadbert, so…”

”Well, that fucking settles it,” Mickey nods wisely, smiling a little when Yevgeny mirrors him. 

”Zhenya,” Mickey and Yevgeny both look up at the door when Svetlana speaks. Mickey feels slightly uncomfortable about it, still, when she says something quickly in Russian.

”Where are you going?” Yevgeny asks with a frown.

”I will stay with Kev and V tonight,” she says in English and walks into the room, bending down to press a loud kiss on top of his head, ”Ian can come get me if you really need me.”

”We’ll be fine,” Ian says, Mickey hadn’t noticed him leaning against the doorframe until now, ”won’t we, kiddo?”

”Yep,” Yevgeny agrees, any trace of worry leaving his face in an instant when he looks up at Mickey, ”we’ll be fine, Ian’s been in the army, he knows how to fight off the night monsters.”

Mickey glances at Ian and the bashful dumbass fucking bends his head at Yevgeny’s statement, hands in his pockets. ”Bet he does.”

”Have fun,” Svetlana orders and ruffles her son’s hair before bending down again and giving Mickey another noisy kiss on the cheek, along with one of the most indiscreet winks he’s ever fucking seen.

He would’ve disagreed with her, just for the sake of it, or at least shaken his head and rolled his eyes. But she’s not fucking wrong. She touches Ian on her way out, brushes past him and lets her hand linger for a beat on his arm, just above his elbow. This has gotta be normal, everyday stuff for them, but every casual look and innocent touch seems to burn on Mickey’s peace of mind. It’s ugly and pathetic. He turns his attention back to Yevgeny to make sure the kid’s not upset by Svetlana leaving, but honestly mostly to distract himself.

The kid’s perfectly fine, probably the only one in the room right now with his goddamned emotions in check.

”We should play racer,” he exclaims excitedly, eyes wide, before looking over at Ian, ”can we daddy?”

Mickey doesn’t have to look at him to know that Ian’s uncomfortable. To his credit, he sounds completely normal when he speaks. ”Yeah, sure thing Yevy. Let’s set it up after dinner, alright?”

”You wanna play racer, dad?” Yevgeny asks, and it takes Mickey a second to realize that he’s talking to him this time. 

”I don’t-,” he starts, because he has no idea what it means to ’play racer’, but then thinks better of it, ”’course.”

”Yes!” Yevgeny punches the air and almost topples over with the motion, Mickey shooting out a hand to steady him.

”Dinner first, though,” Ian says sternly, ”come help me out in the kitchen?”

Yevgeny groans but immediately gets up and marches out the room.

”And dad,” Ian says, sounding a little uncertain, ”you wanna help me out some, too?”

For a brief moment Mickey can't help wishing they were the kinda couple that spent their time joined at the hip, hating that he feels kinda gross and needy for wishing Ian would walk in there and pull him up off the floor, and wrap him up nice and tight. But they are what they are, and on a normal day Mickey wouldn’t want to be constantly fussed over, anyway, touch and cling and insist on making some kinda point out of it. In fact he’d probably really fucking hate it.

He nods and gets up on his own, and follows Ian into the kitchen, sitting down on one of the chairs when he’s not sure what else to do.

”Maestro,” Ian says and easily picks Yevgeny up by the armpits to hold him up in front of the radio, the kid carefully turning the nob until he’s tuned in on something he seems to like, nodding for Ian to let him back down.

”Classic Motown, nice one,” Ian notes and turns the volume down just a little before walking over to the fridge, kicking out a small step stool from under the sink as he passes it.

”What’s for dinner?” Yevgeny asks, carefully positioning the stool and climbing up on it, waiting with his hands gripping the edge of the sink.

”Bangers and mash, mate,” Ian says and it’s gotta be one of the worst attempts at an English accent Mickey’s ever heard. He glances over his shoulder self-consciously when Mickey scoffs out loud, but of fucking course sees right through Mickey’s derisive response and quirks his lips in a small sideways smile.

”So Yev, you’re on peelin’ duty,” he delegates and turns back to the open fridge, rifling through its contents, ”catch.”

Mickey doesn’t react at first, but then Ian lobs something red over his shoulder and Mickey somehow manages to lunge forward and catch it in one hand a couple of feet above ground. Ian turns around and whoops victoriously at the sight, Yevgeny does a little hopping dance on his stool while still safely holding on to the edge of the sink.

”This a fucking tomato?” Mickey complains, studying the vegetable in his hand.

”Yeah Mick, it’s what ketchup looks like before it’s all mushed up and put in a bottle,” Ian teases him, arms full of bags and shit as he closes the fridge door with his foot and walks past Yevgeny to set everything down on the counter.

”You making a salad?” Mickey is too shocked to give Ian crap for being an asshole.

”No,” Ian hums, placing one of the heavier bags next to Yevgeny, ” _you’re_ making a salad, Mick.”

Mickey’s about to protest profusely, but for some reason he doesn’t. Instead he glares at the tomato for another second before he shrugs and gets up. Glancing at the clock on the radio he’s not sure why the fuck they can’t order in or something, but it’s not worth fighting over. 22 hours, 15 minutes.

He walks up next to Yevgeny and sets his tomato down on the countertop, curiously eyeing the contents of the various plastic and paper bags. Yevgeny’s got a bag full of dirty potatoes next to him, and he’s carefully peeling and washing them one by one over the sink. Ian’s on Mickey’s other side, by the stove, crouching down to rifle through the little storage underneath it. On closer inspection, the bags are filled with lettuce and cucumber and bell peppers and more tomatoes. Mickey hasn’t cooked for himself in a long, long time, but before that he’d practically fed himself daily since he was old enough to stand on his own two feet. He’s got this.

”You got a fucking knife?” he mutters after trying one of the drawers where he could’ve sworn the utensils used to be. Ian stands up and puts a large frying pan on the stove, before he wordlessly stretches past Mickey and opens the drawer right next to the one Mickey tried. He pulls out a chopping board and a large knife, placing them in front of Mickey.

Mickey’s pretty sure he could have just said where they were, but he ain’t complaining. Ian’s shoulder brushes against his chest with his unnecessarily slow movements, and the side of his face is so close to Mickey’s he has to rock back little to avoid a crash. 

”Thanks,” he mumbles and maybe kinda pouts for a second when Ian grins and gets out of his space. Mickey rifles through the vegetables and starts to awkwardly wash them under the running tap, pretending to shove at Yevgeny to get better access. Yevgeny snorts and giggles and tries to hit him in the face with his half-peeled, still-dirty potato, and Mickey thinks it’s pretty nice that they didn’t order in. 

”Uh-huh,” Ian hums, and Mickey can see him smiling softly when he grabs a pot from one of the cupboards and walks around them to get to Yevgeny’s other side and hijack the sink, filling the pot with water and submerging the handful of potatoes already peeled. Mickey nudges his elbow in the kid’s side, eliciting a small yelp.

”You’re like a potato peelin’ machine, man,” he says and chuckles a little when Yevgeny tries to show off by peeling even faster, but drops the potato instead, ”you’re doing good.”

Ian comes back up his other side, humming along with the low music and bending over to get a better look at what he’s doing as he lights up the stove. Mickey’s still chopping tomatoes, cutting them up in pretty unattractive chunks but whatever, who the fuck cares? It’s all gonna be mushed up and chewed anyway. He’s got one eye on his own handiwork and the other on Ian’s confident hands, unwrapping an already opened package of sausages, his whole body swaying a little with the happy beat of the song playing on the radio.

”What’s that mumbles?” Mickey asks when he thinks he hears him say something, but when he glances his way Ian seems wholly preoccupied with his sausages. Mickey scoffs and returns his focus on his task, digging out half a cucumber from the bags and rinsing it off lightly, intentionally squirting some water at an outraged Yevgeny in the process.

When he glances quickly at Ian again, the guy’s practically dancing by the stove, pushing the sausages around with his spatula and mouthing along with the words.

”You can’t hurry love,” he more mumbles than sings, and as far as Mickey remembers Ian’s only got two singing speeds; hum and bellow, the former only slightly less annoying than the latter, ”no, you just have to wait, you gotta trust, give it time.”

Mickey can’t help it, he fucking blushes, cheeks burning and insides all nice and warm. Then he snorts and throws the end of the cucumber at his dumbass boyfriend. Ian laughs out loud and reacts the exact way Mickey could’ve fucking guessed he would. He bellows.

”No matter how long it takes!” he sings loudly, badly, and walks around them again to grab the pot now stuffed full with potatoes. Yevgeny throws the last one in right before Ian takes it, and laughs happily at his godawful singing and only moderately better dancing. 

Mickey shakes his head, busy with hulling out some tricky bell peppers, but maybe he hums along a little, too. With the potatoes on the burner and sausages down to a sizzle, Ian turns up the volume on the radio and shuffles back over to Yevgeny to pick him up, spinning him around a couple of times and only making him laugh louder.

”Go wash up,” Ian says when he sets him down, laughing a little too and holding on to the kid’s shoulders for a couple of extra seconds when he giggles and wobbles on his feet. Mickey keeps his eyes on his working hands and practically shivers when he feels Ian come up behind him, looks down to see his arms snake around his middle.

He gives up on trying to use the knife at all for the moment, and decides to do nothing but enjoy the warmth of Ian against his back, the slight tickle of his sharp chin fitting into the crook of his neck.

”No, love, love don’t come easy,” Ian mumbles along with the song, using the unfair advantage of his damn magic pelvis to sway them slightly side to side, ”but I keep on waiting, anticipating for that soft voice to talk to me at night.”

Mickey scoffs and shakes his head, smiling a little when he feels Ian do the same, his lips moving against the side of his neck.

”For some tender arms,” he’s completely out of synch with the song at this point, but Mickey says nothing, ”to hold me tight.”

_I keep waiting, I keep on waiting._

”Hey,” Mickey clears his throat, ”I’m tryna work here, man.”

”An’ I’m tryna distract you,” Ian says, nosing at his skin, ”you got a problem with that?”

”Not in theory, no,” Mickey admits, and maybe he leans back a little, hoping Ian won’t move away anytime soon, ”but do you gotta be such a fucking dork about it, huh?”

Ian huffs, his warm breath tickling down Mickey’s neck, and then he laughs like he can’t stop himself; his arms hugging Mickey closer and his whole body shaking.

”I mean,” Mickey grins, covering one of Ian’s hands with his own and slowly stroking it up and down his forearm, ”not sure I’m gonna be able to get it up later after this song-and-dance debacle.”

Ian only chuckles and fucking covers his whole neck in these ridiculously light kisses, and Mickey might’ve preferred for him to do something really rude, like grab his dick or hump his ass, but there’s a time and place for that shit, and now’s clearly not it. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t kinda like this, too. That he wouldn’t take whatever he gets, at this point.

That he’d ever want Ian to stop.

”Hey Yevy,” Ian says, turning a little and loosening his grip on Mickey by letting one arm drop, but kinda compensating for it by bunching up the fabric of Mickey’s t-shirt and holding it tight, fist pressing into his stomach, ”your dad doesn’t like my singing, can you believe it?”

”He _has_ ears,” Yevgeny teases, and giggles like he can’t believe he’s brave enough to be so naughty.

”That’s one smart kid you’ve got there,” Mickey decides, trying to focus on chopping up the last of his peppers with Ian still lightly, distractingly, pressed against his side, ”takes after his old man.”

”Yeah, he’s a little shit alright, just like you,” Ian agrees and Mickey can see his wide grin, shining up his periphery.

”Yeah, alright,” Mickey huffs, but is easily placated when Ian presses his smile against his cheek, ”whatever, man.”

Ian lets go of him and disappears, reappearing with a worn glass bowl for Mickey to put his half-assed salad in. Ian manages to plate up the sausages, make a mash, and set the table in the same time it takes Mickey to finish and tidy up a little after himself. He sets the bowl down on the table and takes a seat next to Yevgeny, who’s hungrily following their movements around the kitchen. Ian turns down the music some again and stops by the fridge to pull out a cold beer before he joins them at the table.

”Dig in,” he prompts as he takes out his keys and opens the bottle, handing it over to Mickey. It’s nice. Ian makes a good mash and the sausages are on the right side of spicy. There’s a bottle of tabasco on the table, still with the little foil seal on it telling him Ian probably bought it for this occasion, remembering something dumb like that in the middle of everything else going on. Mickey maybe splashes a tad too much of the hot sauce all over his food, but it’s still good. 

Yevgeny tells them about something that happened in daycare the other day, Mickey can’t really follow the story but he doesn’t mind too much. Ian nudges him with his foot a couple of times, and at first Mickey thinks it’s by accident but when it happens another two, three times he starts suspecting differently. Ian eats like Mickey remembers him, elbows on the table and quick to smile and laugh, engaging with Yevgeny’s complicated preschool drama and sometimes locking eyes with Mickey across the table only to look serious for a second and then break out in an infectious grin. Mickey’s salad is pretty fucking crappy, but both Ian and Yevgeny eat it up like it’s perfectly fine.

Mickey thought there wasn’t a kid alive that willingly ate their greens, but clearly he’s been wrongly informed. His kid is pretty fucking amazing.

They finish eating and Yevgeny quickly runs off, excusing himself with talks of race cars and leaving Mickey and Ian to clear the table. Ian gets up and lightly brushes a hand across Mickey’s shoulders when he walks past him with their dirty plates. Mickey finishes the last of his beer and follows, grabbing some of the leftovers and placing them next to Ian on the kitchen counter.

”Go play with your son,” Ian says, ”I’ll deal with this.”

Mickey hesitates, leaning his hip against the counter and gnawing a little at his lip. ”I don’t mind.”

Ian snorts and looks at him, exasperated and fond and everything in between.

”Go play with your son,” he repeats, underlining the request by flicking some water at him from the running tap.

”Fucking bossy,” Mickey mutters and ducks out of the way, walking all but two steps before he changes his mind and doubles back, catching Ian by the neck and swooping in to place a quick kiss on his unsuspecting lips. Ian’s hands are wet and cold when they fly up to grab on to him, to his collar and neck and face, and he twists his whole body closer in his efforts to keep Mickey from going away. 

”Dad!” Yevgeny yells from the other room, and it’s both wildly unsettling and cool as fuck to hear. It makes Mickey wanna break the kiss and run after his kid, but instead he pushes Ian back against the sink with more gusto, reveling in this rare moment of pure fucking brilliant happiness.

”That’s you,” Ian reminds him quietly, not letting go even a little bit despite his words.

”Guess so,” Mickey pulls lightly at his bottom lip and then grins when he takes a step back and Ian pretends to go weak at the knees, dramatically sagging against the countertop behind him. Ian sighs wistfully and then sniggers when Mickey sticks his tongue out and gives him the finger, backing out of the kitchen.

Turns out Yevgeny’s got this old electric car race track that Ian and Svetlana found in a charity shop last year, right in time for Christmas. They build a really neat course together, Yevgeny taking the reigns and managing the site, and by the time they’re setting up the little cars for their first race Ian’s joined them on the floor and heartily cheers them on. Mickey fumbles with the clumsy controls, cursing loudly and profoundly when his stupid fucking car keeps running off track in every motherfucking corner, and Ian picks Yevgeny up and runs him around the small room for a victory lap when he wins by about a million miles.

They take turns, and by the time Yevgeny’s energy and interest start to dwindle, Mickey’s almost won a race or two. Although he strongly suspects Ian to have gone easy on him both times, despite Mickey’s promises to break his fucking legs if he tried any of that pussy crap. Ian smacks him on the back of the head when he accidentally gets a bit too vulgar but Yevgeny doesn’t seem to notice, maybe because he’s busy whopping his dad’s ass on the track at the time.

Ian insists that Mickey joins them when it’s time for Yevgeny to get ready for bed. They stand together outside the open bathroom door and make sure the kid brushes his teeth properly and doesn’t fall down the toilet bowl, or whatever it is they’re supposed to be worried might happen if he’s left without supervision. Ian crosses his arms and looks at Mickey throughout the whole thing, something weirdly calm and intense in his insistent stare. Mickey looks away from time to time, but mostly manages to meet him halfway.

Brushing his teeth seems to invigorate the kid, and he runs around the whole house until Ian asks if he wants to watch a movie before bed. There’s a small TV in Mickey’s old room, Ian’s room now, their room, and Yevgeny directs them bodily on top of the bed into an arrangement that pleases him. Mickey on the right, Ian on the left, Yevgeny sandwiched in the middle. Mickey lays down his arm like a silent invitation and Yevgeny settles in with it as his pillow without any hesitation. Ian puts on a DVD, something about trolls and fish, and Mickey falls asleep running his fingers lazily through his son’s dark hair. He dreams that it’s still wispy and blond and that Ian keeps running away.

”Hey,” Ian says and Mickey wakes with a start, blinking up at a dark room. Ian’s on his side next to him, nose against his cheek and hand on his neck, thumb gently caressing up and down his jaw.

”Hey,” Mickey echoes and his voice is raspy from sleep, ”fuck, how long’ve I been out?”

”Think you missed about an hour and a half of the movie,” Ian says but when Mickey looks at him he can tell he’s joking, ”hey, no, don’t worry about it, Yev fell asleep like five minutes after you did, I turned it off and put him to bed. You’ve only been out for half an hour, tops.”

”What time is it?” Mickey insists, feels something desperate creep into his voice. He’s lost count.

”Nine thirty,” Ian tells him, his voice calm and level. Hands firm and soothing. 9:30, five, six, one, seven, two, eight, three, nine, four, 4 hours, 30 minutes. 19 hours, 30 minutes. 1449, 742.

”Hey, hey, Mick, I got you,” Ian whispers in his ear, and all the numbers kinda fall away. Mickey turns his head and pretty much bumps his nose against Ian’s, they’re suddenly so damned close. Ian picks himself up by a few inches and settles down a little more on top of Mickey, elbows boxing in his head and his face filling up his whole vision.

”You okay?” he asks, echoing Mickey’s usual question and nodding along with him when he answers wordlessly. 

”Did you-,” Mickey frowns and nervously licks his lips, ”you took your pills?”

”Yeah,” Ian sighs, but then almost seems like he wants to smile, ”a while ago, sure took you long enough to ask.”

”Didn’t think,” Mickey dislodges the arm that’s trapped under Ian’s heavy body and brings it up and around him instead, trails his slightly numb hand along his spine, ”I know you’re good.”

Ian sighs again, but it sounds more content this time, and his eyes leave Mickey’s for a second as he runs a hand up his temple and through his hair. Mickey leans into his touch.

”I’ve been takin’ these antidepressants lately,” Ian confides, they never get to talk much about this shit when he visits, ”they still knock me the fuck out at night… I skipped them today.”

”Ian,” Mickey protests, closing his eyes when he sees that familiar stubborn frown/chin combo coming on, ”what the fuck?”

”Tellin’ you ’cause I don’t wanna lie to you, Mick,” Ian sounds measured, and calm, and when Mickey opens his eyes again there’s no trace of that thick-headedness left on his features, ”but I asked my therapist first and she said it would be okay, just for today and so long as I don’t make a habit outta doin’ it.”

”Still fucking stupid,” Mickey mutters and is very well aware that he’s quickly become the stubborn ass in this instance.

”Yeah, sure, but also… you know…” Ian says with a wicked grin and a nothing short of unfair roll of his hips, breaking up his words, ”able to stay awake… all night… and do this.”

Mickey groans and trails his hands down Ian’s body, grabbing on to his ass and pushing him in closer with another thrust.

”Better not fucking waste it, then,” he mutters, smirking when Ian shudders in anticipation.

Ian slowly crawls down his body, hovering his face over Mickey’s chest and stomach until he reaches the buckle of his belt, carefully pushing up the hem of his t-shirt to nuzzle and mouth at his happy trail, making the skin below his bellybutton break out in goosebumps. Ian undresses him again, this time with intent clear as day in his dark eyes and jackal grin. Then he sits up and takes off his own shirt, throwing it on the floor along with Mickey’s discarded clothes, and gracelessly flops on his back to pull off his pants, legs kicking, protesting when Mickey laughs at him.

”Laugh it up, Milkovich,” he says, not without a certain edge to it, as he drops his whole weight back down on Mickey and fits their naked bodies together. 

”You’re so fucking sexy,” Mickey drawls, but probably undercuts his own sarcasm by practically eating the guy alive with his eyes, and grabbing his hands at him anywhere he can reach. Ian muzzles him with his mouth, kissing him long and lazy like, humming contently and closing his eyes. Mickey complies easily when he feels a hand between his thighs, pushing his legs apart, and he spreads them wide as Ian repositions himself in between, slowly rocking his body and rolling his hips against him. Ian uses a bit of spit to slowly, carefully, finger him for a while, almost aimlessly dipping a digit inside like an afterthought to kissing and tasting every corner of Mickey’s mouth.

He almost looks embarrassed when he goes for the lube, and Mickey grins happily at him when he breaks the seal on the comically large bottle, clearly purchased for the occasion.

”Tabasco and lube,” Mickey sighs, flexing his bent leg a little to knock his knee against Ian’s elbow, where he’s kneeling between his thighs and struggling a little with the slippery plastic, ”what a guy.”

Ian scoffs and frowns, clearly too focused on getting the bottle open to waste time on any kind of comeback. 

”My guy!” Mickey cheers drily when Ian finally gets the thing open and triumphantly squirts a ridiculous amount of it into his hand.

”I get there in the end,” Ian hums in agreement, lifting a shoulder in a lopsided shrug and the side of his mouth to match. He rubs the lube between his hands to warm it up, something Mickey only remembers him doing towards the later days of their old relationship. He sits back on his heels and takes his time, most likely messing up the sheets a fair bit when he rubs the lube against Mickey’s ass and pushes the tip of his finger inside.

Mickey wants to tell him to hurry the fuck up, for old times’ sake, but he’s struck mute by a deeply terrified sense of gratitude. There hasn’t been anything up his ass for a really long time and considering where he’s been spending that time this is not something he takes for granted, but it’s for sure gonna take some getting used to again. It’s weird to have wanted something so bad, for so long, and still be this messed up about it. His body and mind completely torn apart.

He groans at himself as he thinks it, but maybe Ian can put him back together.

Ian settles back on top of him and kisses him like they’ve got all the time in the world while his hand rubs circles around his hole, finger dipping in and out until Mickey stops flinching every time like a fucking girl. Then he slowly, cautiously, moves on to two, and then three fingers, sometimes just holding them still inside and kissing him like he’s trying to swallow Mickey’s low moans and grunts of pleasure.

He doesn’t ask about it, and he doesn’t say anything when he gets out a condom and rolls it on to his dick. They haven’t ever discussed it, but they’ve been apart for four years and things happen, and this is not the time for that conversation. Right now Mickey couldn’t give two fucks if Ian’s been banging guys up and down North Halsted while he’s been away, tonight he’s all Mickey’s, and Mickey appreciates him for rather being safe than sorry when he finally pushes himself inside.

”Fuck, fuck,” Mickey pants and screws his eyes shut at the intrusion. He expects Ian to just keep going but instead he leans back down and gives Mickey something to hold on to, and his arms clasp around Ian’s strained shoulders on their own accord. Ian gets his face real close, Mickey can feel him breathing against the side of his mouth, and when Mickey opens his eyes he’s looking right back at him.

”Okay?” he asks and Mickey feels his breath even out, and his pansy ass embarrassment ebb away in Ian’s overpowering presence.

”Yeah, fuck, sorry,” Mickey mutters and thinks he sounds real pathetic. Ian moves his head in a barely there shake, the side of his mouth picking up and his eyes hooded as he presses their faces together and breathes into Mickey’s open mouth, nipping at his lips and getting his tongue all up in there, distracting as all hell.

It still hurts when he starts moving, slowly, but Mickey relishes in it. Ian takes a steady grip of his thighs and bends him like a fucking pretzel, fills him up completely with the slight shift in angle. Mickey clamps his legs around him and digs his heels into his back and ass, tries to egg him on and failing. Ian keeps it steady and slow.

But it still doesn’t last long and the second Ian hits his prostate Mickey blows his load, rutting and squirming under Ian’s heavy weight, trying to get him in deeper and really chafe at that spot, it’s so fucking good. Ian’s staring at him like it’s the first time he’s seen him, jaw slack and eyes wide, and for some reason pulls out while Mickey’s still too turned around to stop him, not bothering to pull the condom off as he jerks himself a couple of times and comes with a strangled noise, pressing his face into Mickey’s cheek.

He rolls off Mickey and lies next to him, panting and staring up at the ceiling, looking like he’s trying to find his bearings. Mickey’s already on his way down, and he takes the moment to study the side of Ian’s face, feeling the burn subside from his lungs and his heart slow down to a gentle trot.

”Sorry,” Ian whispers, swallowing hard and pulling his hands over his face, and into his hair, like he’s trying to calm down.

”Don’t be,” Mickey dismisses the dumbass apology easily, mindlessly waving a hand in the air and turning back to stare at the dark ceiling, ”managed to get you inside me for two seconds before I burst like some blushing virgin, counting that as a fucking win, man.”

Ian groans and covers his face again, but Mickey hears his muffled laughter clear as anything.

”Give me a minute and I’ll do better,” he promises and sounds like he means it, so Mickey doesn’t argue. 

”We’ll give it as many tries as you need, princess,” he can’t help teasing, though, and grins when Ian musters enough strength to weakly punch him in the shoulder, ”ey, save your fucking energy stud, ’cause I will hold you to your word.”

”Fuck I’ve missed you,” Ian laughs, the soft sound dying out in the heavy silence after. Mickey can’t stop smiling, because he’s missed Ian too, and it’s fucking nice to hear. Glancing sideways he can see that Ian’s smiling, too, fingers drumming lightly against his ribs in a very familiar way.

”Hey,” Ian says after a while, his breathing long since back to normal and his voice full of mischief, Mickey turns his head to look at him and grins at his barefaced excitement, ”got you something.”

Mickey picks up his eyebrows and slots his hands behind his head, angling it up a little from the soft pillow. ”Yeah?”

”Yeah,” Ian springs to action and bends over his side of the bed, rifling through a drawer until he harrumphs in triumph. Mickey tears his eyes off his nicely moonlit ass when he pops back up and throws a ziplock bag at his chest. It looks empty at first glance, but when Mickey runs it through his hands he can feel the small stub hiding in a corner.

”This what I think it is?” he asks, careful to keep his hopes under wraps as he narrows his eyes at Ian, who rolls around to face him and leans his head on his hand, elbow digging into the mattress and body curving like a goddamned model. He shrugs his free shoulder and looks super fucking casual about it.

”Damn,” Mickey groans and zips the bag open to sniff its unmistakable contents, ”I fucking love you, man.”

He kinda hears it himself, not realizing what he’s saying until it’s way too late. He flicks his eyes back at Ian who’s staring at him intently. They haven’t really said anything like that to each other since that day outside the Gallagher house four years ago, they have too much pretense to uphold at visits and besides, there’s an unspoken agreement between them of _let’s just wait and fucking see_ that has worked pretty well so far. This furlough feels like a pause on reality though, and Mickey doesn’t think he can be held accountable for the stupid shit he says when he’s given free drugs immediately following a fairly decent orgasm. Certainly the best damned orgasm he’s had in years.

He can tell Ian wants to make a big deal out of it, but then he suddenly grins and lunges at him, in one swift movement grabbing the bag back and straddling his hips, holding Mickey down with one arm and the bag up high in the air with the other.

”What was that?” he says, barely moving at all when Mickey struggles and tries his best to topple him over.

”Didn’t say anything,” Mickey lies, because he wants to say it again but not like this. He laughs and paws pointlessly at Ian’s taut body, trying to fight him off without actually hurting him.

”You did, I heard it,” Ian insists and sits down a little heavier when Mickey almost manages to get his hips loose enough to shake him, ”say it again.”

”Fuck you,” Mickey growls, his weak ass intimidation game severely damaged by the way he can’t stop smiling and maybe the fact that he’s very naked and halfway to decently hard again.

”Yes, but we already agreed on that,” Ian says and nods, leaving his defense wide open when he moves his hand away from Mickey’s sternum, trying to regain some balance when Mickey bends his knees and thrusts up against his ass, ”hey, playing dirty, Milkovich!”

Mickey doesn’t hesitate, he heaves himself up and flips them around, digging his elbows into Ian’s upper arms and pinning him down. Ian juts out his chin and stares up at him defiantly but doesn’t really try to regain the upper hand, even though he probably could. Mickey grinds down on him a couple of times until he’s certain that Ian’s in the same precarious situation as himself, before he snatches the bag back and climbs off him to sit back down on the bed.

”Dirty’s all I got,” he says, feeling pretty pleased with himself, and pulls out the joint from the bag.

”There’s no weed in Joliet?” Ian asks, folding his hands behind his head and crossing his ankles comfortably, like he isn’t at all bothered by his dick stretching out way up on his stomach and calling out for attention. Mickey scoffs and sits back against the headboard, glancing at Ian’s curious face instead and distracting himself with answering his innocently stupid questions. He always secretly liked them, liked the way Ian looked at him when he asked them.

”Not so much, difficult to hide that shit,” he says and quirks an eyebrow, placing the joint between his lips mostly to feel it out, ”less likely to be caught if you shoot up between your toes, or whatever, sniff shit, pills… hell, they were pushing some kinda eye-drop shit for a while that got you there real quick, but the warden came down on that one hard when a couple guys in C went blind.”

He shrugs, not looking to dwell on that memory. ”It’s all piss poor quality crap anyway, it’ll mess you up real bad if you’re not careful. I don’t touch any of the stuff they tryna push on me in there, not anymore.”

Ian nods, but says nothing. The first year had been rough. Ian hadn’t wanted to visit him and Mickey hadn’t wanted to see his wife and child much, either. With a 9 year sentence he’d felt like it’d just been a reminder of everything he was missing out on. He’d done a bunch of drugs then, because it was easy and because it made things less shitty, temporarily. 

He remembers the day when Svetlana had shown up without Yevgeny, shaking him to his core by crying and pretty much begging for his help. Up until that point he hadn’t understood why she’d kept visiting, but with the vultures from immigration flocking around her she finally spelled it out for him. She needed to stay in the US, and she needed him to be her husband again for that to happen. Oddly, the metaphorical step back into the closet didn’t feel like such a failure, it was nothing but finally something he could actually _do_. He could pretend to be a husband, and a father, and it was no one’s fucking business if he wasn’t either. If maybe pretending became easier with each visit.

And then Ian had started showing up, alone sometimes and with Svetlana and Yevgeny at other times, and then every time. And eventually it started sinking in that even though he was missing out on a lot of things, this wouldn’t be Mickey’s life _forever_ and if he worked hard enough he might actually have something good to return to. Some kind of family that knew him, fought for him, maybe even loved him.

By year two he was still in fucking prison, but he was cleaner than he’d ever been, even on the outside. And he had hope, that maybe words like ’parole’ weren’t magical things that only happened to other people, and that maybe ’I’ll wait’ meant just that, no more, no less.

”I always ask Yev to say it,” Ian says and Mickey has no idea what he’s talking about, he doesn’t meet Mickey’s eyes when he looks down at him, ”every week.”

”What’s that?” Mickey asks, bending his knees a little more to bring them up closer and taking the joint from his lips to hold it out in front of himself, lightly rolling it between his thumb and pointer finger.

Ian says nothing for a few seconds, and when Mickey glances his way again he’s blinking up at him, a slight frown creasing his brow. ”He says it because he means it, but I always ask him to mean it a little from me too.”

Mickey swallows convulsively, thumbing at his bottom lip and looking away from Ian’s open face. The first time Yevgeny had ended one of their visits with a garbled ’love you daddy’, had been fucking _hard_. The kid’d been sitting on Ian’s lap with the too big receiver held awkwardly to his ear with both hands, and Ian had smiled and whispered in his ear and kissed him on his then still blond hair, eyes shiny when they met Mickey’s. Mickey had barely kept it together and only managed a gruff ’you too, buddy’, but he’d gotten better at it since then. Mostly Ian would look at him with his stupidly obvious eyes when Yevgeny said it, and yeah, Mickey had gotten the fucking message. It was all he could think about sometimes, clinging to the idea that Ian came back week after week and _didn’t stop_ , and he did it simply because _he loved him_.

It’s been an unspoken thing for so long and Mickey kinda wishes he didn’t try and spell it out now, in so many words.

”He calls you ’dad’,” Mickey deflects, wincing at himself when he realizes that maybe he doesn’t wanna talk about this either.

Ian sighs, and Mickey feels him gently touch the tips of his fingers to his ankle, just above the monitor, and then absentmindedly up and down his calf.

”Yeah,” he doesn’t try to deny it, ”I don’t think he even realizes that he does it, though. And he only does it sometimes, you’re always ’dad’, all the time. Talk to him about you every day.”

He says that last part very quietly, like he’s not sure he should admit to it, or maybe he thinks he shouldn’t be doing it at all.

”You do?” 

”Yeah, Mick, ’course I do,” he nods, Mickey sees it in the corner of his eye, ”not lookin’ to replace you or anything. I’m just here and you’re not, and he’s just a kid… it’s all he knows for now. It’ll be different when you get out.”

”’m not mad,” Mickey barely gets the words out, but he really isn’t. He’s insanely grateful that Ian’s out here, picking up his slack. He’s jealous and sad and, yeah, angry too, but not about that. Angry with Ian for other things, maybe, and angry with himself, most definitely. But never angry at Ian for taking care of his kid, for treating him like his own son, for being better at it than Mickey ever imagines he himself would be.

”Today was good though,” Ian interrupts his downwards spiraling thoughts, ”he seemed to think it was completely normal for you to be here, right?”

”He’s a good kid,” Mickey agrees, because he can’t even begin to try and put into words the warmth he’s feeling in the pit of his stomach, ”and what _is_ today, anyway?”

Ian chuckles a little at his incredulous tone.

”Like, actually what the fuck is going on?” Mickey grins, but it comes out more like a grimace. ”First couple hours and I didn’t even wanna ask, man, thought I’d break the spell if I did and I’d wake up back in the slammer, fucking needle stickin’ outta my arm.”

Ian laughs, and the sneaky bastard shuffles closer so he can run his teasing fingertips further up Mickey’s leg, settling on the inside of his thigh. It alone sparks Mickey’s blood into action, waking up his whole body.

”I’m sorry we couldn’t prepare you for it,” Ian says and grins up at Mickey, obviously not _too_ sorry, ”looked it up a while back, what kinda stuff could warrant a furlough… deaths, marriages, close family stuff, religion helps. Was working on something else when Terry had that first aneurism and I kinda thought, you know… if he’s gonna die soon anyway, might as well be prepared to make the most outta it.”

Mickey snorts and shakes his head, can hardly believe it even with Ian laying it out for him like this. He’s never been more proud of his boyfriend’s tricky resourcefulness and gigantic balls.

”Had to rely on a lot of goodwill from the warden, though,” Ian continues, ”all up to him in the end to grant or deny, so the application was a huge-ass shot in the dark. You should see it as a credit to your own charming self that they agreed to it at all. I was convinced they’d turn us down just ’cause, and if not that then just ’cause they knew who Terry was, gotta have a bigass file on him in there somewhere.”

He flattens his hand against Mickey’s leg and then down again to the back of his thigh, absentmindedly combing through the short hairs there with his stubby fingernails.

”Maybe that’s what did it in the end,” he muses, ”maybe they know exactly who Terry was, why that makes you so…”

Mickey shifts uncomfortably, not at all interested in talking about the old man or what surviving his abuse makes him, and Ian’s fingers dig into the relaxed muscle of his leg like he thinks he might go away if he doesn’t. Putting the joint away on the bedside table Mickey slowly sinks down on the bed until his face is level with Ian’s.

”C’mon,” he says, ”’m gettin’ fucking cold here.”

Ian sits up on his elbow and starts looking around, maybe for a blanket or where they ended up throwing their clothes. Mickey sighs and rolls his eyes, and grabs Ian’s free hand so he can turn his back on him and forcibly get him to fucking spoon him already.

Ian huffs in surprise, but immediately settles in flat against Mickey’s back, lips parted and warm on the nape of his neck.

”You’re doing so good,” he mumbles, and Mickey wishes he wouldn’t, ”so fucking proud of you.”

”Shut the fuck up,” Mickey grouses, but grabs Ian’s hand closer and clasps it against his chest.

”I’m sorry it had to be this way,” Ian continues, undeterred, ”but I’m so happy to just be with you, for a little while.”

”Don’t be sorry,” Micky sighs, ”you conned me out of prison, man, organizing a whole fucking pretend wake and funeral for my piece of shit father just to get me out for a day, you’re fucking amazing.”

”That’s twice he’s given us something good now,” Ian mumbles, like he doesn’t really want Mickey to hear it but says it anyway, ”even when he tried his fucking hardest to beat us down.”

They never talked about what happened with Svetlana, and it seems so long ago now that Mickey thinks they probably never will. There’s no real point, anymore. Mickey never thought that this was how Ian felt about it though, that they were given something good at the end of all that heartbreak and pain, and it gets him right in the gut. 

”You’ve gotten real close with Svet.” Mickey doesn’t know why he brings it up.

Ian hugs him closer, and readjusts himself a little so he can rest his chin against Mickey’s shoulder, touching his lips to his skin before firmly pressing his nose into the same spot.

”It’s weird,” he says, words slightly muffled when he doesn’t pick up his head to speak, ”it’s just… everyday, you know?”

Mickey gets it, and he can’t really complain about it. But it still kinda hurts.

”I get really fucking jealous,” he admits, because he’s sick and tired of not ever saying what he feels, ”she touches you like… fuck, I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

Ian sighs against him but says nothing for a little while, and Mickey closes his eyes and tries to memorize the feel of Ian’s bony knees against his calves, firm hips against his ass, chest against his back, hand against his chest. Lips all over, wherever.

”I’m sorry,” Ian eventually says, and it doesn’t feel like anything other than just that. They’ve got a lot to be sorry for, things they did, things they _didn’t_ do, the way things are. Most things they can’t really do anything about, but just hearing Ian sympathize with Mickey’s pretty fucking unreasonable jealousy kinda validates his emotions a little, and it feels nice. He feels less alone.

”Yeah, well,” he sniffs, ”I’m sorry you have to sit there week after week and pretend you’re just there as a friend, and we never get to really talk about shit that matters.”

Ian shrugs, jostling them a little. ”It is what it is, I get it, USCIS are on your ass and maybe I don’t like this arrangement you’ve got, never did, but I don’t wanna see her shipped back to Russia. Messed things up more than enough for you as it is, pressuring you to come out and define our relationship when you weren’t ready, not thinking…” 

Mickey can’t help it, he squeezes Ian’s hand closer to his heart. Things had been fucked up, yes, but fighting to keep Ian around is not something he’s likely to ever regret. 

”Anyway,” Ian nods a little, nose brushing against Mickey’s skin, ”Yev’s wellbeing trumps whatever bullshit I might be feelin’ on the matter any day, every day.”

”You’re so sensible,” Mickey sighs and grins when Ian nibbles lightly at his shoulder, ”when the fuck did that happen?”

”When I got old and boring,” Ian admits.

”Fuck off,” Mickey elbows him none too lightly in the ribs, ”you’re 23.”

”Well, they grow up fast,” Ian picks himself up a little to nose up his neck, ”these south side gays.”

He lands a hand on Mickey’s other side and the muscles in his arm flex nicely when he looms over Mickey with his special style of predatory seduction. It never fails to get Mickey going

”Uh-huh, that so?” Mickey smiles and shivers when Ian’s warm breath hits the sensitive skin right behind his ear. ”Tell me, gramps, you ready to go again already, or you gonna need some more time?”

Ian chuckles lowly and grabs him by the shoulder to push him over on his back. But he doesn’t climb back on top or back between his legs like Mickey expects him to, instead he gets something tender and serious stuck in his eye and he kinda melts against Mickey’s side and takes him gently by the chin, guiding their lips back together.

Mickey hums into the sweet kiss and frowns when he feels something cold run along his sternum.

”What’s this?” he says and breaks away to look down their chests.

”What?” Ian sounds very disoriented for a second, then he follows Mickey’s gaze and watches as Mickey picks up the ring he’s got hanging around his neck in a long chain. ”Oh.”

Mickey hadn’t noticed it before, otherwise preoccupied with _Ian_ when Ian first took his clothes off. He runs his thumb along the edge of it and angles it to catch some of the dim moonlight coming through the window. It’s a wedding band.

”It’s Monica’s,” Ian explains, quietly, and Mickey doesn’t let go of the ring when he meets his eyes.

”She’s gone,” he says, because he already knows that Ian’s mom died last year, because Ian told him when it happened. But same as with everything else there’d been no way for Mickey to say any of the things he’d wanted to say, no way for him to comfort or console, behind the heavy plexiglass and under the heavy scrutiny of the COs.

”Yep,” Ian sighs and seems to let go of something when he ducks his head and rests it on Mickey’s shoulder, his whole body heavy and warm against Mickey’s side, ”thought she was invincible, thought she knew what love was, but fuck I don’t think she ever really figured anything out.”

”You were very different people, Ian,” Mickey tries, because he really believes that. Maybe he knows Ian in a way very few others do, and maybe he didn’t know Monica very well at all, but he never thought they were much alike. A single voice amongst shouts when Ian’s siblings insisted on Monica and their brother being one and the same, the same fucking problem for them to either ignore or try and fix.

”Yeah, starting to get that,” Ian sounds hesitant, but it seems to be something he’s finally allowing himself to consider, ”she was so full of life, you know?”

Mickey frowns and wraps his arms around him, touches his lips to his forehead.

”I’m so fucking sorry, man,” he says, because he knows Ian might not want to show it but he did love her, and Mickey knows that he grieves her death deeply, ”but listen, Ian… you’re sweet, and loyal, caring, and I will deny ever sayin’ this if you try calling me out on it, but you’re funny and sharp as fuck. Maybe she was full of life or whatever, but you’re pretty fucking great too. You got a kind fucking heart, man, and I love you.”

Ian says nothing, maybe he’s stunned to silence. Maybe he’s no better than Mickey at hearing this kinda stuff.

”You’re also difficult and snarky, and impatient, and stubborn as fuck,” Mickey tags on, for balance, ”and you’re all of those things and more off and on your damned meds, you were those things when I first met ya and you couldn’t take a hint for shit or keep your cool to save your life, and you’re like that today, carin’ for my son when you don’t need to and stickin’ with me through all my shit when you could do, fuck-, maybe not better but, you know.”

He rolls his eyes and grins through the wetness in his voice when Ian chuckles against his neck.

”Could _maybe_ find someone _almost_ as amazing as me,” he shrugs, trying to keep his voice light, ”maybe even someone that _isn’t_ gonna be stuck in a cell for the next two to five years, if you really tried.”

Ian mumbles something into his neck, Mickey feels it more than hears it.

”You say something?” he asks, shoving his shoulder up some to jostle the guy. It works, and Ian sits up a little to rest his head on his hand instead, elbow digging into the pillow right next to Mickey’s ear.

”Nope,” he says, but his wide smile betrays him, ”I got something for you.”

”Yeah?” Mickey grins and bites his lip as he eyes Ian in a way he hopes is abundantly suggestive. ”It’s not more lube, is it? Some kinda kinky tabasco flavored shit.”

Ian winces at the thought. ”Not anywhere near my junk, Mick.”

”Such a fucking prude,” Mickey sighs and grunts when Ian gets off him and then dares to leave the bed too, ”the fuck are you going?”

Ian shakes his head and walks across the room to rifle through the top drawer of Mickey’s old dresser. He pulls out a cardboard box and tosses it at Mickey. It hits him right in the ribs, corner first, and Mickey rubs at the sore spot as he eyes the box suspiciously.

Too big for a ring, too small for a severed head. That’s the width and breadth of Mickey’s romantic imagination.

”What is it?” he asks, looking at Ian to see him crawl back up on the bed and sit down next to him, legs crossed.

”It’s probably stupid,” he says and he looks fucking embarrassed, Mickey kinda loves it already, ”it’s really stupid, shoulda got you something real instead, I just thought-, I don’t know. Didn’t buy it for tonight, just for whenever, while back.”

Mickey decides to put him out of his misery and opens the box, pulling out a moderately short string of black anal beads, size starting at a little smaller than a golfball in one end, and ending in the ballpark of tennis at the other.

”Very subtle,” he remarks, eyebrows flying high.

”Tried to get something more like that old giant rosary you had, but fuck if I know where you managed to find that atrocity,” Ian huffs and self-consciously scrubs his hand over the back of his neck, ”googled for like a full fucking hour and this was the best I could do.”

”Yeah, alright, but why?” Mickey asks and examines the beads shamelessly. The ones he’d gotten for himself once had really appealed to him, they’d had a certain no-nonsense class, and girth. But these’ll do, though, he thinks. These’ll do. Ian shrugs when he glances back up at him.

”Thought about it a lot,” he says and rolls his eyes when Mickey quirks an eyebrow, ”not specifically about shoving balls up your ass, no, but you know…”

Mickey tilts his head to the side and weighs the largest ball in his hand, it’s nice and heavy, smooth. ”Think you’re gonna have to use your words for this one, Gallagher.”

Ian shuffles a little closer and gingerly takes the beads from his hands, returning them to their box and setting it down on the bed between them, gripping the edges of it tight.

”Tried to imagine, like, scruffy, closeted, teenage Mickey fucking Milkovich, who still refused to kiss me when we fucked by the way, somehow managing to get his hands on anal beads,” he says with a crooked, slightly sad smile, barely looking Mickey in the eye as he speaks, ”and maybe I’m a prude, or whatever, still coulda tried a little harder with this stuff, when you tried to tell me stuff.”

It hadn’t been a huge thing, but Mickey would be lying if he claimed it hadn’t stung a little. And not in the good way. They hadn’t been good at talking much about anything back then, but looking back at it he can see how his closeted ass had tried to, in some kind of non-verbal way, open up to Gallagher about what he liked, and Ian had dismissed him entirely. He doesn’t get why Ian would obsess about that shit now though, plenty of worse things to deal with from that day alone if he wanted to dig at old wounds.

”We got interrupted,” Mickey reminds him, not knowing how to tell him it’s fine and have him believe it, too.

”Yeah,” Ian nods, ”yeah, I know.”

”I tell you how I got them?” Mickey asks, mostly to steer clear of things he’d rather not talk about, grinning when Ian snaps his head up curiously.

”You serious?” he says, clearly excited to hear it, ”I kinda figured you just wanted ’em bad enough for an actual fairy to sprout wings and leave the beads under your pillow like some gay-ass tooth fairy.”

He tilts his head and his lips quirk into that crooked smile that spells nothing but trouble.

”Don’t,” Mickey sighs.

But Ian points a finger gun at him and goes for gold. ”Ass-fairy.”

Mickey snorts but otherwise does a pretty good job not laughing at Ian’s terrible, but infectious, sense of humor.

”Nah, don’t think the ass-fairy’s services extend to this side of the tracks,” he says, ”kinda stole some dude’s credit card this one time and I used it to buy shit online. Beads, bulk of lube, couple of monster dildos, fucking high-end fancy-ass stuff too.”

Ian picks up his eyebrows in surprise, but says nothing.

”Used the address to the principal’s office at school,” Mickey shrugs, but feels a thrill of childish pride when Ian grins, ”and then kinda just harassed the mailman for about a week until it arrived and I could, you know, forcefully intercept his delivery.”

Ian looks confused. ”Were you even still in school then?”

”Nah,” Mickey admits, ”but between dealin’ and getting sex toys delivered I’m pretty sure I had my most rewarding school year ever, anyway.”

”Plus you were getting laid on the regular,” Ian adds, not a little smugly.

”Sure was,” Mickey smirks, quirking his head to the side, ”had this one guy on the line, you know, he was somethin’ else. Stamina like a fucking beast back then.”

”Back then-, you throwing shade?” Ian growls and gets up on his knees, stalking over to Mickey on all fours and looming over him. Mickey laughs, because Ian is the most ridiculous guy he’s ever met and he can’t fucking get enough of him.

”Throwing shade?” he teases but Ian doesn’t even flinch, he just climbs on board and looks like he’s still waiting for something when he lowers himself down and slowly starts rolling his body. ”Jesus.”

He’s pretty sure he meant to say something clever, antagonize and play their usual game. But Ian grins wickedly and Mickey decides to skip the preamble.

”Go hard this time,” he says, hoping that the thickness in his voice won’t leave Ian thinking he has a choice in this.

”You wanna,” Ian starts and swallows heavily, looks a little uncertain in a way he never does when it comes to this stuff, ”you wanna use the beads?”

Mickey can’t help smiling, trying helplessly to press his lips together and hide it. Ian’s got his fair share of hangups when it comes to sex, Mickey doesn’t have to be a genius to figure that much out even though they’ve never explicitly talked about it. The guy’s pride is largely attached to his dick, putting it simply, and he hides his insecurities behind this pretty obnoxious confidence in his own sexual prowess. Not that he’s actually wrong about it, just really obnoxious sometimes. Slightly less so now, it would seem.

”I appreciate you thinkin’ of me an’ all,” Mickey says and grins wider when Ian snorts and dips his head, that floppy piece of hair falling down his forehead, ”it’s the sweetest gosh darn gift I’ve ever gotten.”

”Shut the fuck up,” Ian mutters and shifts a little on top of him.

”But let’s save it,” Mickey continues quickly and grabs his arms around him to keep him close, ”got plenty to keep me satisfied right here.”

”Yeah?” Ian’s voice is down to a whisper, and when he looks up again he’s no more than an inch away from Mickey. ”Hard, huh?”

Mickey nods and then tilts his head back a little so his lips brush against Ian’s.

”From behind,” he says, his whole body throbbing at the thought. He thinks for a second that Ian might disagree, because _24 hours_ , and maybe this is supposed to be all sincere and deep and shit. _Fuck_ , what time is it? He’s lost count.

Ian interrupts the quickly rising panic with a well placed thrust, groaning into Mickey’s mouth and removing any and all thoughts but ’ugh’.

”Get on your knees,” he demands, and Mickey’s mind kinda blanks, relishing in their matching wild grins as they scramble up on their knees and Mickey turns around to bend over and let Ian take the reigns.

Ian fucking eats him out. He never used to do that shit, maybe once or twice but he’d never seemed all that into it. Now he moans and thrusts his whole face into Mickey’s crack and it’s awesome on the verge of plain fucking strange. Mickey looses patience with it quickly, but right when he’s about to tell Ian to ’get on him already’, Ian’s got the lube out again and goes straight to shoving what feels like his whole hand in there.

Mickey curses and moans and tries not to squirm or buck too much. It’s only three fingers he realizes when Ian bends them and scissors him open, and he forgets all about being embarrassed about his unfamiliar sensitivity when Ian nudges at him deep inside, and heat flushes through him.

”Right there,” he mumbles, ”c’mon, Ian.”

Ian uses more lube than strictly necessary, pushing in, and he goes way too slow at first. But fuck, then he hits him just right and when Mickey growls at him to go harder already, fucking _please_ , the grip on his hips turns vise-like and Ian starts pounding into him like a machine. Mickey stuffs his face into the pillow and makes noises he’ll never own up to without a dick up his ass, and just when he thinks it’s about to be over, way too soon again, Ian slows down and takes a moment. Breathing heavy and mouthing sloppily against Mickey’s back.

”So fucking good,” Mickey pants, pushing himself up on his elbows to give himself a breather. Ian nuzzles in between his shoulder blades in response and folds his arms around his torso, putting one down to the mattress for balance and smoothing the other down Mickey’s stomach. He touches his fingertips to his dick, tracing along the underside of it.

”Careful,” Mickey warns, because damn, he’s right there on the edge already. He feels Ian smile against his back and then do the exact opposite of what he’s told, quickly changing his stance so he can start pounding into Mickey again while still touching him with slow, measured strokes. The slight shift of angle hits just right, every time, and Mickey muzzles himself with the pillow as he comes, cursing Ian out in a way that probably sounds more like mindless praise. 

Mickey is afraid Ian’s gonna pull out again but he doesn’t, he keeps going like a fucking Duracell bunny through Mickey’s orgasm, through the sensitive discomfort after, and then all the way to getting Mickey going again, flat on his stomach now with Ian pretty much riding his ass into the mattress. The second time he comes almost takes him by fucking surprise, spent and overwhelmed and with his dick sandwiched between his abdomen and the bed, Ian thrusting into him erratically, reaching his own climax.

Mickey’s doesn’t even notice him pulling out until Ian flops down on the bed next to him, pleased and panting and tossing the used condom overboard.

”Better,” Mickey croaks, sincerely, and grins when Ian cracks up. He squeezes his eyes together and giggles helplessly until Mickey thinks he sees tears in the corners of his eyes.

”Ey,” he laughs and slaps at Ian’s shoulder, ”shut the fuck up.”

That only makes Ian laugh harder, clutching at his stomach.

”I mean it!” Mickey insists indignantly, ”it was a lot better!”

Ian’s still fucking chuckling when he rolls on his side and crowds in on Mickey, tracing his hand up the curve of his back and nudging his face in real close.

”I love you,” he tells him, still smiling, and Mickey can do nothing but meet his steady eyes, and kiss him thoroughly when he inches forward and closes the last bit of space between them.

”Good,” he says.

They get under the covers and Ian falls asleep pretty much instantly, snoring lightly against Mickey’s back, his big hand twitching a little as he drifts off. Mickey traces the veins and lines on top of it with his fingertips until sleep finally finds him too. It’s still dark when he wakes up again, but he slips out of Ian’s arms and gets out of the warm bed.

He puts on his boxers and wanders around the quiet house. He checks in on Yevgeny, watches him sleep for a few seconds before he starts feeling like a creep and leaves his room, ignoring the unfamiliar urge he feels to disturb his kid somehow; push his hair off his forehead, or rub his back, or kiss him on top of his head, check that he’s real, that he’s there, and that he’s fine.

He stalks around the covered coffin in the living room, walks in wide circles and tries to feel something. He stares at the clock on the wall, 3:16. 13 hours, 44 minutes. 741 days.

He smokes the joint Ian gave him, sits on the chair in the corner of the room and watches Ian’s shoulder rise and fall with his steady breaths. He thinks he should be stressed about wasting time, letting Ian sleep and considering joining him again, but he feels good about it. He feels like he could do _whatever_ in this space, with this guy and his, _their_ , kid, and it would be worth while. He stubs out the joint even though he’s got about half of it left, and opens up the window, wide, to air out some of the heavy smoke. Ian shouldn’t be exposed to this stuff on his meds, and he feels a little ashamed for not thinking of that sooner.

He stands by the open window for a good while, enjoying the cold breeze over his exposed body, the familiar noises of his neighborhood at night. He turns when he hears Ian ruffling the sheets behind him, and sees him curl up and frown in his sleep. Mickey closes the window and takes off his boxers again, not entirely sure why, before he crawls back into bed.

He jostles Ian awake enough for him to mindlessly wrap his long arms around him, tight, and mutter something about him being cold. He doesn’t let go though, but sleepily rubs his hands over Mickey’s body, wherever he can reach, until he falls asleep once more. It’s a little annoying but it’s mostly nice, and it does work. By the time Ian’s snoring into his neck again, Mickey’s warm and relaxed, the weed settling on his mind and fogging up his thoughts.

He’s alone when he wakes up. But he’s in a wide, comparatively comfortable bed, and the sheets smell like that detergent Mandy used to buy, and like himself. And like Ian. Ian, Ian.

Like a shiny, sexy Beetlejuice, the man himself appears as though conjured by Mickey’s thoughts. Pale and gorgeous in his boxers and the soft morning light.

”Morning,” he says and crawls up on the bed, yanking away the covers when he’s close enough.

”What time is it?” Mickey asks, torn between really needing to know and only wanting to close his eyes and enjoy the tickle of Ian pressing dry kisses up his body.

”Almost nine,” Ian mumbles, and Mickey can tell he’s trying to sound casual, nudging his nose into the dip right below Mickey’s ribs. _Nine_. Three, six, seven, eight. _Eight hours._

Ian hums and Mickey wonders if he said that out loud. Drops it entirely when Ian runs a hand down the inside of his thigh, strokes his long fingers casually up and down Mickey’s slowly rising morning wood, smiling and kissing his way across his chest. Mickey sighs and shifts under him.

”That feels nice,” he mumbles, biting his lip over a soft moan and arching off the bed a little when Ian changes course and moves down again, quickly licking him right below his belly button, teasingly close to where he’s flattening Mickey’s dick against his stomach with long lazy strokes, and exhales a warm breath over the wet patch of skin. Mickey shudders and bends the leg that isn’t held down by Ian’s weight, and gently pushes himself closer, bucks his hips up towards the warmth of Ian’s mouth.

Ian says nothing, instead he blows him, slowly, taking him in almost lazily between licks and wet kisses until Mickey digs his hands in under his pillow and closes his eyes as his orgasm thrums through him in waves of warmth and static. This time, Ian doesn’t argue when Mickey wants to return the favor. 

Mickey hadn’t been a huge fan of sucking dick when he was young and in denial, and afraid, it’d somehow been too immediate having his shame staring him right in the face like that. But like it had been his wont to do, Ian had pushed and pulled him out of his comforts and like it is with most things; once Mickey started getting good at it he also started to really enjoy it. He thinks it can be strangely intimate, blowing someone, while still being comfortably dismissible as no big deal afterwards. Well, saying ’someone’ might be a stretch, it’s only ever been Ian. He’s done a lot of things with plenty other people, but not this. 

It’s intrusive and dirty as fuck sometimes, though, and he never really got used to it when Ian on rare occasions would try and take control, or lose control, fucking into his mouth like Mickey didn’t need it to fucking breathe.

He likes it when Ian lets Mickey take care of him, for once. When he sits so still and lets Mickey do all the work. He likes it when Ian shudders and comes, and sounds like he’s equally surprised by it each and every time.

Mickey’s still got his face buried in Ian’s crotch, dick softening against his cheek and Ian’s fingers combing through his hair, when Ian suggests that he could go take another shower, if he wants. The moment he says it Mickey notices the faint smell of soap on Ian’s warm skin, nosing at his hip, and that his pubes are still a little damp. He thinks about insisting that Ian join him anyway, but the temptation of enjoying one more shower in blessed solitude wins out in the end. He doesn’t stay in there _as_ long as the day before, but he takes his time. He shaves again, even though he doesn’t really need it, and stands for a moment in front of the fogged up mirror and regards himself critically. It’s been replaced, he realizes in the midst of his scrutiny. Not just the broken mirror he once had used for a punching bag, but the whole cabinet. It’s a little rusty and most definitely second hand, but it’s not broken or covered in the splatter of his dried blood.

He gets dressed, rifles through the dresser and wardrobe to find his clothes mixed in with stuff he doesn’t recognize, and stuff he definitely recognizes as very much Ian’s. He does the no-sleeved t-shirt, no-sleeved dress shirt combo thinking he should make the most out of the free dress code while he can, and quickly pulls on his jeans before heading out the bedroom. The whole house smells of coffee and cooked bacon, and he barely spares the flower-covered coffin a thought as he walks past it.

Ian’s in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and humming along with the radio, turned down low.

”Hey,” he says and smiles, only turning his head when he hears Mickey come through the doorway, ”wake Yev up?”

Mickey grunts and doubles back out the room, knocking a little awkwardly on Yevgeny’s door before going in. The kid is like some kind of half-child, half-jellyfish at first, barely able to sit up without collapsing back to sleep when Mickey shakes him carefully and then tries to somehow pull him out of bed.

”You’re gonna make one excellent teenager,” he mutters and sits down on the bed when Yevgeny curls back up in his duvet the second Mickey looks the other way. He turns to drastic methods and tickles the boy awake, not letting up until he’s wide-eyed and squealing with laughter.

”Up and fucking at ’em, kid,” he says and smiles when Yevgeny calms down enough to remember where he is and, by the looks of it, who Mickey is.

”Will you stay, daddy?” he asks and Mickey can swear he makes himself sound smaller than he really is. Or maybe he’s an only nearly five year old kid, barely awake and perhaps starting to wrap his head around why his dad isn’t ever around.

”We got today, alright?” Mickey dodges the question and clears his throat uncomfortably when Yevgeny seems happy with his answer. ”You supposed to get dressed, or somethin’? Ian’s making breakfast.”

”Can I eat in my pajamas?” Yevgeny asks and at some point he got hold of Mickey’s hand, playing with it absentmindedly and sounding a lot like he knows exactly what the answer’s gonna be. ”Please, please?”

”Yeah, sure,” Mickey shrugs, ”can’t see why the fuck not.”

Yevgeny smiles and turns his full attention to Mickey’s hand, pinching each of his fingers between the pads of his thumb and pointer finger, one by one, like he’s counting them.

”I, eh-,” Mickey starts and tilts his head a little, sucking at his teeth for time to figure out what it is he wants to say, ”you know, me an’ your-, me an’ Ian, right?”

He’s five, Milkovich, come the fuck on. Use your fucking words.

”I was thinkin’,” he says, looking down at his hand and following Yevgeny’s careful inventory of his digits, ”if you wanna call Ian ’dad’, or whatever, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Yevgeny nods, like it isn’t a big deal at all. Mickey lets out a slow, measured sigh.

”Just don’t forget about me, ey?” He can’t help the slightly pathetic request.

”Nope,” Yevgeny says and grins up at him.

”Alright.” Mickey raises his eyebrows and lets out a more obviously relieved breath, making Yevgeny giggle. It’s easy and he wants to do it for the rest of his life. ”Hungry?”

Yevgeny nods and holds out his arms, as though he expects Mickey to pick him up and carry him. 

”Legs not working, huh?” he drawls and shakes his head when Yevgeny’s only response is to make grabby hands at him. He pretends to sigh again and tries not to be too awkward about it when he digs his hands in under the kid’s armpits and hoists him up.

Ian’s placing plates stacked full of pancakes on the table when they enter the kitchen and Mickey tries to drop Yevgeny down on his chair without somehow breaking him in the process. Ian pours a cup of coffee by Mickey’s seat. Two meals in and he already feels like he’s got a place at the table, and maybe he’s kidding himself but so fucking be it.

”So domestic,” Mickey comments in a mutter, giving Ian an impressed once-over as he sits down and Ian serves him his plate.

”Hardly,” Ian scoffs, ”compared to dealing with Debs’ crazy summer daycares or, worse, all those hookers you had living here that one time, takin’ care of my two boys is a cakewalk, it’s nothing.”

Mickey purses his lips together and shrugs as he drowns his pancakes in syrup. ”It’s something, man.”

Ian says nothing, but briefly places a hand on Mickey’s shoulder before he walks back to the counter. Breakfast is quiet, Yevgeny eats like he’s been stranded on a desert island for a week and holds his orange juice with both hands. Mickey thinks he’s gonna spill the thing every time he goes for a drink, but he never does. Ian eats a big bowl of store-brand musli with milk and a banana, drinking a smelly concoction he claims to be tea, but Mickey doesn’t give him a hard time about any of it. He knows how much he struggled with feeling good about his weight a few years ago when he settled on a cocktail of meds that were working really well otherwise, but screwed with his metabolism. Mickey wants to tell him he looks good, because he really fucking does, but he keeps quiet.

”More please,” Yevgeny asks politely after he’s finished his OJ with a loud, pleased noise. Ian unscrews the lid on the bottle and pours him another half glass, and turns to Mickey with the bottle slightly raised in a silent question. 

”Yeah,” Mickey nods and watches as Ian gets up from the table, crossing the kitchen to grab another glass from the cupboard, ”thanks.”

Ian hums quietly in response and turns up the radio just a little while he’s over there. Maybe he’s got some kinda thing for the low-key bedroom soul playing, maybe he’s trying to say something again.

 _Whether, whether, times are good or bad, happy or sad._

”You’re not working today?” Mickey asks when Ian comes back to the table and stands next to him, closer than strictly necessary, and pours him a tall glass of juice. Ian quirks his lips but doesn’t look down at him, all his focus on not spilling before he screws the lid back on the bottle and sits back down.

”Took the day off,” he says and meets Mickey’s eyes, like he’s daring him to give him grief over it.

”Not complaining,” Mickey says, because that much should be fucking obvious.

”Rogers owed me one,” Ian explains anyway and absentmindedly reaches out to wipe some syrup off Yevgeny’s chin, the kid barely noticing, ”it’s fine, doin’ a double tomorrow.”

Mickey frowns. ”You sure that’s a good idea, man? Remember what it was like when you used to pull that crap in the beginning? Almost falling asleep at the fucking wheel and shit, stabbing that one guy wrong with his epipen.”

And that’s not all he did. He stopped taking his fucking meds and almost lost the job as quickly as he’d got it, but Mickey knows he doesn’t have to remind him of that. Luckily Ian’d been upfront with his station manager about his condition in his application, and they’d been surprisingly forthcoming with both time and sympathy. The weeks, months, it took for Ian to get back on his feet that time had seemed fucking endless to Mickey, using up all his phone privileges on daily calls to Svetlana and even Fiona sometimes, and nearly pacing through floor in his cell waiting for Saturdays to roll around, just to get to witness first hand as the dark circles under Ian’s eyes faded and the medicated fog slowly dispersed. 

Only good thing coming out of that mess was that even though shit got bad, Ian kept showing up. Every week. And Mickey felt a little less like a fool for wanting to trust him again, for wanting to forgive him. Still, he’s not too keen on going through something like that again anytime soon, if it can be helped.

”It’s just this once, Mick,” Ian insists with the kind of patience Mickey knows he’s only got in very short supply.

”Just don’t fucking stretch yourself, alright?” Mickey grumbles and feels his scowl smooth itself out when he looks at Ian again and yeah, sure, the guy rolls his eyes at him, but his stupidly fond smile it still in there, somewhere.

”Is eh-,” Mickey hesitates, ”what’s his face, asshole with the busy fucking hands?”

”Williams,” Ian reminds him, mouth full of soggy musli, ”Wills.”

”Yeah, that guy, he still busting your balls?”

Ian picks up a shoulder and lets it drop, chews down his food before he answers. ”It’s fine, never gonna be best friends or whatever, but ’s not like I’m up at night crying about that.”

Mickey smirks and wiggles his eyebrows, shoving a piece of pancake in his mouth and lazily speaking around it. ”No? What are you up crying about then?” 

Ian sighs dramatically and slouches forward a little, elbows on the edge of the table. ”Steady decline of civil society? The Sox?”

”Fuck off,” Mickey grins, ”you know, think you owe me a real pretty meltdown after the embarrassing fucking waterworks I pulled yesterday.”

Ian shakes his head and smiles at him, looking a little surprised that Mickey’d bring it up so casually, he’d probably been fully prepared to take that one to his grave. 

”Do enough of that when you’re not here,” he says, voice quiet and abruptly sincere. He looks down at his food, frowning like he immediately regrets saying anything. Mickey kicks out a foot and nudges him in the shin with his big toe.

”Fucking baby,” he says, and maybe he didn’t even intend for it to sound like a jab considering how sickeningly fond it comes out. Ian huffs and quirks his head like he kinda agrees and shovels another spoonful of his breakfast into his mouth. Mickey leaves his foot over there, presses the inside of it neatly against Ian’s wooly sock.

”Ian, can we go see the kittens later?” Yevgeny asks out of nowhere, making Ian look up and quickly swallow his food.

”Not today, kiddo,” he says, ”sorry.”

”But I wanna,” Yevgeny frowns and crosses his arms, he looks like he’s sticky all the way up to his elbows.

”They’re not going anywhere,” Ian reminds him, calmly, ”your mom can take you tomorrow before work, alright?”

”But I want to go today,” Yevgeny tries again, this time pouting and sounding like his whole damned world is breaking apart under the injustice of it all.

”Pack that face up, Yevy, it’s not gonna happen,” Ian smiles, as though he’s somehow immune to Mickey’s demon child and his big shiny blue eyes, ”your dad’s here today and it’s our job to keep him in the house.”

Yevgeny drops the puppy dog act for a second and curiously peers over at Mickey. ”Why?”

”’Cause he’s the most wanted man in all the land,” Ian announces in a dramatic whisper, cutting his spoon through the air in a wide bow, indicating at the very least the whole kitchen as said land.

Yevgeny gasps and puts his hands over his mouth, eyes sparkling. 

”Outlaw,” he says in awe, voice muffled, ”did he do something very bad?”

”Nope,” Ian says and grins when Yevgeny drops his hands in disappointment, ”but he was very brave and tried to help someone he loved, and it got him in trouble with the law. If the sheriff finds him we’re all screwed, cowboy, so we gotta lay low in here for a while, alright?”

”Was it a damn Sally, dad?” Yevgeny asks, getting excited again when he looks to Mickey for an answer. Mickey’s officially lost. 

”A what?” Mickey glances at Ian for support.

”Damsel,” Ian translates with a small shrug, ”been watching old westerns, they got a bunch of ’em for rent at the library.”

”Alright, um-,” Mickey decides just to go with it, leaning forward a little and nodding seriously at Yevgeny’s expectant face, ”ey, bet your ass it was a damn Sally, kid, wouldn’t get myself into trouble like that for just anyone.”

Yevgeny smiles and bites his lip over it, the gap in his teeth extra visible when he does.

”Was it mommy?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows in a look of wholehearted incredulity. ” _Your_ mom? Nu-uh, no chance in hell, man, she’d sooner kill me herself than be any kind of damsel in distress, your mom’s a fucking hardass.”

”I clearly wasn’t thinking when I started this,” Ian mumbles to his food and sighs.

”What’s a dude damsel?” Mickey ponders gleefully, grinning at Ian when he pointedly ignores him. ”Mansel? Dudsel in distress?”

”That’s not a thing,” Yevgeny’s skeptical, and by the looks of it losing faith in their yarning by the second.

”Sure is! Just ask your-,” Mickey hesitates, not even sure why at this point, ”just ask Ian, knows all there is to know about dudsels, and the endless distress they need rescuin’ from.”

”You’re just making all this up,” Yevgeny accuses them, frown deepening when Ian laughs, ”then I wanna go see the kittens!”

Ian stops his sniggering and when he speaks there’s a stern edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. ”Firm no, Yevy. Why’s this so important all of a sudden, huh? You were over there the other day.”

Yevgeny sighs and it’s with what’s looking like the weight of the whole world on his shoulders that he puts his elbow on the table and leans his cheek on his knuckles, listlessly grabbing his fork to poke at his leftovers. 

”Wanted kitten to meet dad,” he admits reluctantly, like he’s spoiling some big surprise.

Mickey frowns and stops carving at his breakfast for a second to glance at Ian.

”This a person or an actual cat?” he asks, skewering a piece of pancake with his fork and holding it up, waiting for an answer before stuffing his mouth.

”Cat,” Ian confirms, smiling a little when Mickey only grunts at the information and goes back to eating, ”whole litter down the street, you remember Zeke?”

”Big guy?” Mickey asks with his mouth full and nods when Ian hums. ”Yeah, sure, him and his brothers. Fucking Conny stole my bike once.”

Ian looks surprised, which is fair enough. Stories about stealing and Milkoviches normally play out the other way around, and besides, Mickey’s not exactly been a bicycling kinda guy since they got together. Well he wasn’t _now_ , not after fucking Conny stole his fucking bike and had his asshole brothers beat him up for being stupid enough to try and take it back on his own. Mickey’d been too ashamed to ask his own brothers for help, that time, lied and said he’d sold the bike and lifted his first wallet off this elderly lady on the L for the cash to back up his story. 

Ian doesn’t need to know this, gotta save something for when they’re old and grey or whatever. 

”We were eight and the bike was shit anyway,” he says for only explanation.

Ian snorts and nods.

”Yeah, well, Mrs Robinson still lives there with the youngest,” he continues, ”and their cat’s been big as a house for a while now, finally popped last week. Yevy wants a kitten, now that Original Kitten is gone, and he’s starting to wear us down. Been meaning to talk to you about it, see what you think, but then shit hit the fan with Terry and everything.”

”Sure,” Mickey shrugs, and then frowns, ”the fuck is original kitten?”

”Your cat, Mick,” Ian reminds him, looking at him like he’s lost it.

Mickey glares back at him. ”You talking about Killer?” 

”You’re the only one who called that cat Killer, Mick,” Ian huffs and sips his damned tea, ”your son called her Kitten, as will he probably call the next one, too, if we get one.”

”Killer is a dude, man,” Mickey corrects him, eyes widening when Ian shakes his head, ”seriously?”

”All lady,” Ian says, setting his tea down so he can hold up a hand in solemn oath, ”all over.”

”Well, shit,” Mickey sits back, then decides to shake it the fuck off, ”still gonna call her Killer, ’cause that was her name for fifteen years before this house was overthrown by that… infuriatingly literal name-giving dictator over there, yeah kid, I’m talking about you.”

Yevgeny sits up straight and beams like a damn sun, but Mickey figures he probably didn’t catch any of the aggressive sarcasm and just responds to being the center of attention. Mickey grins at him, because who could ever resist that happy little face, and sticks his tongue out at him like any proper responsible adult would.

”What do you need a new kitten for anyway?” he asks, considering all out war when Yevgeny quickly escalates things by sticking his syrupy fingers in his mouth and pulling at the corners to make a grotesquely wide grin, poking his tongue out through it.

”Shit Mickey,” Ian says, and Mickey abandons his plans to pinch his cheeks into a droopy eyed clown face so he can look his way, ”think I totally forgot-, Yev was down with a cold that week and missed like two Saturdays in a row, remember? Few months ago, it was just you and me for once and I guess I forgot-, coulda sworn I told you.”

Mickey just stares at him, what he’s trying to say not clicking in place on it’s own.

”Killer’s gone, Mick,” he says and he looks genuinely sad when he does, like he thinks this is the one that’s gonna tip the scales or something, and throw Mickey into a tailspin of grief and depression, ”think it was age, though, found her one day in the back yard, she looked really peaceful.”

Mickey glances over at Yevgeny, but either the kid isn’t listening or Ian’s had a really efficient talk with him about death, because he doesn’t look too bothered by any of it.

”Kinda loved that damned cat,” he says and frowns, surprising himself with the admission, ”he eh-, she… I was the only one here she tolerated, used to come into my room in the mornings if I had my window open. Slept at the foot of my bed and clawed at my fucking feet if I got too close. The cat was an asshole but she took care of herself, you know? Had shitload of integrity for a fucking pet.”

”Sorry,” Ian says and puts his fucking hand on Mickey’s thigh, under the table. 

”Just a cat,” Mickey scowls, because he doesn’t sound at all convincing even to his own ears. Ian gives him a sad little tightlipped smile, and then the asshole takes his hand back without even asking if Mickey was done with it.

” _Your_ cat,” he says, and Mickey winces. Of course he would say that.

”Hardly,” Mickey shrugs, clearing his throat and focusing on his pancakes so he won’t have to look directly at Ian’s face, ”no one’s cat, that thing. Fed it sometimes and shit, and it stuck around.”

”Yeah, well, she got lazy last couple of years, almost domesticated in the end,” Ian moves his foot against Mickey’s, it’s probably by accident but it’s still nice, ”she kinda hated me but she liked Yevy enough, never even scratched him once. Right kiddo?”

”Yep,” Yevgeny agrees, ”Kitten loved me.”

”Hey,” Ian says, like he just thought of something, ”how about we let your dad name the new cat, huh? If we get one.”

Mickey’s mind immediately kicks back at Ian’s pandering tone, sounding like he thinks Mickey’s some kinda child that needs cajoling and bribery to deal with the slightest change in life. Any ill thought drains away though when Ian turns to him with a look of desperation, mouthing a quiet ’please’. Mickey is flushed with embarrassment at his initial reaction, and there’s an odd sort of relief to it. He has little to no autonomy in prison, and he somehow managed to forget that life with Ian is supposed to be the polar opposite of all that shit. Mickey isn’t the child here, he’s the _other parent_ , and Ian’s looking at him now like he needs his fucking support or something.

”Mick help,” he mutters under his breath, ”don’t think I can do another fifteen to life of calling some poor cat ’kitten’.”

Mickey glances over at Yevgeny who’s looking between them with a firmly annoyed frown creasing his little forehead.

”Sure, alright,” he says, ”first off, we all know there’s gonna be a new cat, no way you ain’t gonna crumble under the pressure of all that.”

He gestures vaguely at Yevgeny’s innocent face across the table and Ian snorts.

”Second, this is only gonna happen on the non-negotionable condition that I get to name the thing.”

”Like what?” Yevgeny asks, unconvinced and clearly looking for credentials.

”Dunno,” Mickey says, biting back a grin when Ian mumbles something that sounds a lot like ’literally any-fucking-thing else’ into his mug, it’s nice to know Mr Perfect Dad has his limits too, ”how about you bring a picture of the new cat next time, tell me all about him, and I’ll think of something that fits. Sound good?”

Yevgeny seems to mull it over for a second, but then he smiles over at Mickey and nods.

”Deal,” Mickey decides and grins back at him.

”You think we’re all wrapped around this little guy’s finger,” Ian notes drily, ”it’s nothing compared to how quickly that kid would agree to pretty much anything you say.”

”Ey, son,” Mickey decides to try it out immediately, if only to shut Ian up by proving him wrong, ”kick Ian in the shin for me, will ya?”

To his surprise, the kid doesn’t even hesitate. Ian’s got quick reflexes though and what goes around fucking comes around because his foot moves away from Mickey’s when he dodges out of the way of Yevgeny’s assault.

”Real nice, asshole,” Ian mutters and rubs at his shin even though he hadn’t even been so much as grazed by Yevgeny’s short range kick.

His annoyed frown and glare softens and disappears when he looks back up at Mickey, presumably seeing some trace of the surprise and awe he’s feeling at having any sort of leverage with his son after spending four of the kid’s five years on the planet in prison. Ian stretches his long legs out under the table and traps Mickey’s ankle between his own, but says nothing when he goes back to eating, scraping the last of his breakfast out of his bowl.

Today feels like the eye of the shitstorm that is their life together, but Mickey can’t help thinking that they’ve also somehow managed to grow out of some of the worst they were when they were younger and didn’t seem able to stop hurting each other. He’d be hard pressed to say prison’s in any way managed to _correct_ him, but he doesn’t mind admitting that, on a strictly personal level, being separated from Ian and forced to take things slow has done them some good, has given their possible future relationship some kinda second chance. Of course, without prison Ian still would have seen to the separation part of the equation, and maybe then they would have found their way back together sooner, and moments like these would be every morning, every day. But then again maybe not. Maybe Mickey would be somewhere else, somewhere worse. Or somewhere better, although in this moment he can’t imagine how anything possibly could be.

Who the fuck knows. Mickey’s never been one to give the ’what if’s much thought.

Mickey thinks they’re gonna need a fucking crane getting him back to prison with the gross amount of pancakes and bacon he eats and he sits on his chair like a beached whale, nursing his second cup of coffee, while Ian clears the table and Yevgeny runs around on a syrupy sugar-high. Mickey somehow gets tricked into reading him one of his little books in his room, and they sit together on Yevgeny’s bed and find out all sorts of things about evil crocodiles and jungle life. Mickey feels slightly self-conscious about reading out loud, at first, but he gets into it after a while. He even tries his hand at doing a couple of silly voices, which is a big hit, and sometimes he sits back and lets Yevgeny read a sentence or two. He doesn’t know if his kid is a certifiable genius or if he just knows the book by heart, but he’s gonna go ahead and be one of _those_ dads and go with the former. He hears Ian moving around in the living room the whole time, uncovering the coffin and preparing everything for the service. Sometimes he stops by the room and stands in the doorway, listening, smiling like his face is about to split in two.

Mandy shows up around 11, (twelve, five, six. _6 hours_ ). She hugs him for a long time, several minutes, and Mickey’s pretty sure he feels her crying against his shoulder. Soon after that, Svetlana shows up with Kev and V and their two kids in tow, carrying big pans heavy with food and a large case of cheap beer. They’re loud and rowdy, and V’s laughter echoes through the house the moment she steps through the door. They act as though they saw Mickey just the other day, and Mickey appreciates it.

Within the hour, the house is overrun with Milkoviches and Gallaghers and a couple of strays looking for free food and beer, hardly deterred by the service being open casket and a small family affair. Iggy clasps him on the shoulder when he arrives, and asks about some guy called Tommy he met in prison a couple years back that Mickey’s never heard of. ’Must’ve been a different prison,’ Iggy shrugs and goes off to find himself a beer. 

Lip gives him the world’s most awkward, manly hug, and Mickey only barely refrains from punching him for his efforts. He doesn’t mind Lip so much though, in the end, and he can appreciate the sentiment. The rest of them act as though this is just another party and they stand around the coffin in the living room and in the kitchen, eating, drinking and talking, laughing it up. Mickey feels weird about Yevgeny seeing too much of his dead granddad, though, so at some point he rounds up the kids and takes them outside. He sits on the steps and keeps a close eye on them as they run up and down the street, chasing each other and harassing Tony still in his car. Tony seems very happy about being harassed though, stepping out to stretch his legs and join in, seemingly completely turned around and amused by the haphazard rules of their made-up games.

Laughter pours out through the open door behind him, and Mickey smiles to himself when he finds a very old, very battered pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. He can hear Ian in the midst of all the noise, talking and laughing his big, infectious laugh along Fiona’s charming cackle and Lip’s sarcastic commentary. It’s a bit too much, all these people, but Mickey feels the itchy pressure of the crowd slowly slip away the longer he sits out there in the no man’s land between the adults inside and the kids on the street.

The only thing he’s really got to complain about in this moment is that the only cigarette left in the pack has been completely bent out of shape, and the lighter stuck in next to it doesn’t work. It sparks just fine, but when he shakes it he realizes that it’s all dried up. He lets the cigarette dangle from his lips anyway, likes the dry feel of the filter sticking to the tip of his tongue when he nudges at it.

His little moment of happiness is perfected when Ian drops down next to him, stretching out his long legs down the steps and holding out a lighter in front of Mickey with a pleased smile.

Mickey smirks, lips still hugging the cigarette in place, and takes the lighter from him. ”Boy scout.”

Ian huffs, but probably isn’t terribly offended by the teasing assessment of his character. There are far worse things to be accused of being than ’always prepared’. Ian quietly bends his legs, feet planted wide on the bottom step, and rests his elbows on his knees as he clasps his hands together. He’s looking out at the playing kids with this soft little smile when Mickey cups his hands around his cigarette to light it up, perhaps too busy glancing sideways to properly aim and taking a few extra tries to get the stick burning.

”You good?” Ian asks without turning to look at him. Mickey nods anyway, taking the cigarette from his lips and slowly blowing out a lungful of smoke.

”Yeah,” he says, scratching his thumbnail over his bottom lip, ”just… a lot.”

Ian looks at him then, squinting a little against the sharp sun and smiling easily like it’s fine.

”Thanks,” Mickey mumbles, giving back the lighter and hoping that Ian gets what he means.

”You’re welcome,” he says, voice low and yeah, Mickey thinks he gets it.

”Hey! _Hey!_ ” Kev shouts behind them, his voice booming out through the living room and the wide open front door, cutting through the noise and silencing most of the chatter. ”Simmer the fuck down everybody, where’s the man of the hour?”

Mickey winces and takes another deep drag off his cigarette. ”How drunk do you gotta be to lose sight of the dead guy in the fucking coffin?”

Ian only glances at him with that slight crooked smile of his.

”Hey! Whatever, I’ma speak anyway,” Kev continues, to a wide variety of protests and cheers, ”although he may be a dirty criminal, he’s our dirty criminal, and he deserves every good thing comin’ his way.”

Mickey frowns and exhales an annoyed ’what the fuck?’, smoke billowing out his nose with the words.

”May our broken and overtaxed justice system soon spit him back out on a technicality so he can go back to raising his kid and riding his boyfriend’s dick, like a free American,” Kev leaves a pause for the howls and wolf whistles to die down, ”to Mickey!”

There’s a murmur of agreements and then an uneven chorus of ’to Mickey!’. Mickey blinks and looks down at his hands, the bruising from his cuffs clear and purple against his ghostly skin in the bright spring sunlight. He thumbs at the filter on his cigarette and very consciously doesn’t look at Ian.

”To Mickey,” Ian agrees, so softly Mickey almost doesn’t hear him. He fights the lump in his throat and nods at nothing in particular and fucking everything when he feels Ian’s hand on the back of his neck, squeezing gently, his fingers combing up his hair.

When the hearse arrives, Iggy, Joey, Colin and Jamie carry Terry out the door and into the back of the vehicle. The Gallaghers and Balls go home, taking the leftover food and booze with them to most likely to continue the party there, and Ian, Mickey, Svetlana and Yevgeny pile into the back of Tony’s car, Mickey not saying anything when Ian tells Yevgeny to sit with his dad for a second while he buckles in, and then doesn’t make a move to take him back. Mandy sits up front with Tony and Mickey assumes the rest of his brothers and cousins manage to find themselves a ride, they must’ve gotten to the house somehow. 

He can’t see the clock on the car radio from where he’s sitting, but he caught a glimpse of it as he climbed in. 1:25. 3 hours, 35 minutes.

The drive is silent, Tony humming gently from time to time but never turning on the radio. Yevgeny sits back heavily against Mickey and allows him to hold on to him, tight. Ian’s lanky legs are in an uncomfortable-looking position, knees pressed up against the partitioner between them and the front, but he doesn’t complain. Instead he sinks down even further and leans his head on Mickey’s shoulder, reminding Mickey of a time long ago when Ian had been so lost and Mickey had felt like he just kept losing, over and over again. Back then they’d been driving towards Ian’s biggest fear, to lock him up and convict him of something over which he had no control. Mickey had never meant to almost kill someone, but it’s still what he did. He’d been a messed up kid with very little to lose, only realizing how much he actually had after it was forcibly taken away. 

The service is short. Mickey doesn’t really pay attention to what’s being said, too busy staring at Ian on the other side of the open grave, holding hands with a very solemn-looking Yevgeny. Mandy is holding on to Mickey’s hand, and their brothers and cousins are lined up on either side of them. No one’s bothered to dress up, Mickey hadn’t even considered it, and there are no flowers. Mandy hugs him again, after, and promises that she’ll come visit him more often. She’s happy where she is now, though, that’s all that matters to Mickey. So he tells her that. She punches him lightly in the shoulder and sniffs out a sad ’assface’, and that’s that. His brothers wave and yell a bunch of stupid shit at him as they’re walking away, they never were into the sentimental stuff and besides, probably don’t really think a couple of years in the big house is anything much to bitch and moan about.

Ian takes a backpack from Svetlana and hangs it off one shoulder, kissing her lightly on the cheek before taking Yevgeny by the hand and leading him and Mickey in a different direction than everybody else. Mickey follows him without question.

”Whatcha got there, Gallagher?” he teases, however, eying the backpack. ”This a runaway situation after all?”

Ian snorts and shakes his head. They walk along the headstones, Yevgeny running around and asking questions, trying to read names and dates and wanting to know shit to most of which neither Mickey nor Ian know the answer. They walk through the cemetery until it opens up into a park; a low, wide hill surrounded by trees beyond the cemetery’s walls. Ian leads them out on the grass, stopping briefly to help Yevgeny take off his shoes, rolling up the hem of his pants so he can run around barefoot without getting his clothes too dirty. Mickey watches Ian suspiciously as he takes off his own shoes too and continues walking with both pairs dangling from his hand by their laces.

If you asked Mickey Milkovich to make a list of things he’d want to do given 24 hours of freedom from his almost decade long prison sentence, walking barefoot through grass would not in a million years be on that list. But here he is, almost out of hours, and he’s spent them all following Ian’s lead; doing small, easy things that might not’ve made any kind of list but in the end is all he ever wants to do with his time, limited or not. Ian hasn’t told him what to do, or acted at all like they’ve been on a tight schedule, he’s just nudged Mickey along and facilitated his every step, making everything so easy and natural.

So Mickey takes his fucking shoes off, and is slightly surprised to discover that he really likes the feel of the cool grass against the naked soles of his feet. There are a couple of other groups of people out in the park, besides themselves, so Ian steers them over to a corner of the field that is the least crowded. He pulls out a threadbare old sheet from the backpack and lays it down on the grass.

It’s a fucking picnic, and Mickey would complain if it wasn’t painfully clear to him by now that he’d do just about anything, anywhere, so long as it was with Ian and Yevgeny. What is a picnic anyway? Food outside, is what it is. Food outside with a bad rep. He sits down.

Ian’s bag’s got PB&Js wrapped in plastic, and a bottle of water for Ian, a juice box for Yevgeny, and a couple of beers for Mickey that are still surprisingly cold when he cracks one open. Yevgeny isn’t hungry, he’s a lot more interested in hunting for bugs amongst the trees, but Mickey eats a couple of sandwiches and fucking savors his beer and tries not to think about what he’ll most likely be eating tomorrow.

”Ian, Ian,” Yevgeny demands and almost crashes into the guy when he runs up to them, ”airplane!”

Ian catches him easily and steadies him on his feet. ”Commercial or special ops?”

”Special ops,” Yevgeny grins and bounces on the balls of his feet when Ian salutes him. Mickey watches as Ian lies down on his back and folds up his knees to his chest, looking like a gangly turtle that’s been toppled over. He stretches his hands down past his knees and Yevgeny positions himself with his tummy against the soles of Ian’s feet, holding on to his hands for dear life.

”Ready?” Ian asks, and Yevgeny giggles and nods. ”Alright, Rogue One, ready for lift off, 3, 2, 1, hold on!”

Yevgeny laughs and does his best to keep his body straight as Ian rocks back and stretches out his legs, pushing Yevgeny off his feet and up in the air.

”Hold on,” he says again when Yevgeny wobbles unsteadily, ”Rogue Leader to Rogue One, what’s your status?”

”Ugh,” Yevgeny says but then seems to pull himself together, ”steady!”

”Ready for launch,” Ian announces and Yevgeny gives him a serious nod, ”disengage one.”

Yevgeny lets go of his hands and Ian slowly lowers them to the ground, making sure that he’s got a good balance going and that Yevgeny feels safe.

”Target in sight,” Yevgeny reports, frowning at something in the distance, arms spread wide like wings. Ian sways him lightly from side to side.

”Attack position in 3, 2, 1, go!” Ian makes a ridiculous whooshing sound and flattens his hands against the ground so he can push his back up and propel Yevgeny forward. Mickey freaks out for a second when the kid looks like he’s about to do a nosedive, but at the last moment he holds out his hands in front of himself and he lands in the grass over Ian’s head with a pretty impressive forward roll. Ian’s legs flop back to the ground and he quickly twists and gets up on one elbow to make sure Yevgeny’s landed in one piece.

”Target destroyed!” Yevgeny roars and jumps up from the ground, before he runs away with his wings back out and his mouth shooting lasers. 

Ian relaxes back down on the blanket, placing his hands behind his head and smiling brilliantly up at Mickey.

”Dorks,” Mickey scoffs, so he won’t have to say what he really feels. Ian looks like he pretty much agrees and Mickey hesitates for about two seconds before he stretches out on his back, too, next to Ian. Ian lets his head down against the covered grass and flattens his arms along his body so Mickey can settle in close by his side. Mickey reaches over him and grabs his left arm by the hand, holding it up in front of them so they both can see the watch on his wrist. 3:14. 1 hour, 46 minutes.

”741 days,” Ian says under his breath. Mickey lets go of his hand and glances at the side of his face. He had no idea Ian counted them too.

”It’s a long time,” Mickey points out but Ian only seems confused when he turns his head and looks at him.

”What?” he says, and then immediately looks like he understands ’what’ when Mickey picks up his eyebrows and remains silent. He shrugs. ”More than half way there already.”

”Not necessarily,” Mickey objects with a frown, graduating to a full scowl when Ian snorts.

”No fucking way you won’t make parole, Mick,” he says confidently, ”you’re a model fucking prisoner, you’ve got a young family that visits you every week. You volunteer at their crappy-ass library for christ’s sake, if they don’t let you out in two years I’m gonna bring the whole fucking house down, especially after the revolving door bullshit they pulled with Terry year after year, knowing full well he was a drug pushin’ Illinois nazi arms dealer, on top of being an abusive fagbashing psychopath. No fucking way you won’t make that parole.”

”Oh yeah?” Mickey smirks and settles in to watch the clouds sail by above them, brushing his fingers against the back of Ian’s hand, nestled between them. ”Whatcha gonna do about it if I don’t, tough guy?”

”Don’t know,” Ian admits, ”guess I gotta make a plan for that too.”

”You got a lot of these plans?” Mickey asks, curious to hear what else Ian’s got up his sleeve besides fake wakes and funeral picnics. Ian hums noncommittally but says nothing for a while. Then he moves his right hand away from Mickey’s and digs around for a second under the neckline of his shirt. He pulls out the chain with Monica’s ring on it and picks up his head a little so he can take it off.

Mickey watches in silence as he unclasps the chain and removes the ring from it, then holds it up in front of himself, like he’s looking at the sky through it.

He lets his arm drop and holds the ring to his chest, right below his ribcage, rising and falling with his steady breathing.

”Maybe,” he says, voice small, ”it’s not expensive or fancy or anything, but it’s solid, and it means a lot to me… she gave it to me before she died. Can you believe she still had it? Probably the one thing she never tried pawning off for cash, or drugs.”

Mickey doesn’t turn to look at him when he seems to hesitate, thinks that Ian needs to get through this uninterrupted.

”Besides this, all she ever gave me was crappy advice,” Ian sighs, ”my whole life, she knew how to twist me around. In the end, guess all she wanted for me was to find love, I just don’t think she knew what that really means. When I was diagnosed she told me-, fuck, no, it doesn’t matter what she told me. My fault for listening.”

Mickey keeps quiet and shifts uneasily when tension crawls up his spine. He’s wanted to hear Ian say this for four years, but now he’s suddenly not so sure.

”I’d do things differently, if I got a second chance,” Ian says, and Mickey sees his Adam’s apple bobbing uncomfortably when he covertly glances his way, ”all of it. And I know you don’t wanna make me any promises or anything, but I kinda do. Want you to know that I _will_ wait. Two more years or four, five, more.”

Mickey says nothing, but he takes the ring when Ian holds it out for him.

”I have a plan,” Ian says, and sounds all the more confident for it, ”if we get hitched, I’m able to apply for you to get three whole days out for the ceremony and everything. It’s not ideal, because we’d have to wait until you’re one year away from the end of your sentence and I’m not sure how that works with a possible parole, but I’ll figure it out. And then there’s Svetlana, we’d have to arrange for a kinda long con thing to set up the divorce in a way that won’t look suspicious, and there’s her green card to consider-”

”Ian, stop,” Mickey winces, holding the ring in one hand as he presses the heel of the other against his eye, ”I, shit… can’t do another fake marriage, man.”

”No, Mick,” Ian insists, ”that’s not- Jesus, I don’t care how or when, I just thought… well, kinda hoping we would anyway, one day, and if we can get something outta it, a couple days where you don’t have to be in there… that would be worth more to me than any kind of party or honeymoon, or whatever. I’ll save up again to pay for it, I’m sure Tony won’t mind helpin’ out-”

”Ian, I-,” Mickey really didn’t think he’d be doing this, but he doesn’t know what else to do, this has gone too far already, ”I don’t think you’re making the right choice, man. Choosing me.”

Ian sighs but says nothing, and Mickey struggles to keep himself in check in the silence. He tries to focus on the distant sounds of the city, cars and trains and people beyond the thin border of trees around the park. The breeze rustling through the leaves almost manages to drown out the city, and someone else’s children laugh and scream happily across the hill.

When Ian speaks again, his voice is surprisingly calm and measured. ”Do you remember what I told you that day, on the porch?”

”Fuck,” Mickey does not want to think about that, ”’course I fucking remember, Ian, what do you think?”

”I don’t,” Ian says, ”I don’t remember what I said to you. It was bullshit. I was a mess. I remember how I felt, and I felt nothing. I felt like I’d let everybody down, myself too, and like I couldn’t be a real person anymore, like I didn’t know how… I fucking cheated on you and like, barely even felt like I done something wrong, who does that? Who feels that way? I didn’t wanna keep doing that to you.”

”Ian,” Mickey warns.

”Not saying I did some selfless thing,” Ian shifts a little next to him, ”I was being very selfish. I thought I needed to be selfish to get better. And you might not wanna hear it, but I also didn’t want you to be stuck with me. You might’ve gotten a 9 year sentence, but I felt like I’d been dealt one for life, and, fuck-, you didn’t have to go down with me.”

”Should’ve been my choice to make,” Mickey mutters and frowns when Ian chuckles.

”Yeah,” he says, ”I agree. So, you know… could you please think twice before telling me that you don’t wanna be with me for my own good, Mickey? Because I promise you it’s fucking bullshit, and it’s not worth the pain. You’re my family now, you and Yev, and I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you think I could give that up. ’Cause I can’t, never-fucking-mind making any kinda choice at this point that isn’t you.”

Mickey runs his fingertips along the edge of the ring, it’s a promise, a proclamation, something they’ve gone four years without but something he knows he’s secretly wished they had, something he’s wanted for a long time. He probably shouldn’t accept it, but whatever, he never was very smart when it came to Ian and he doesn’t expect that likely to ever change. 

He rests the ring on his chest and pulls at his own wedding band until it slides past his knuckles. He replaces it with Monica’s ring, _Ian’s ring_ , and huffs a little in surprise when it actually fits. He flips his old ring up in the air and grins when Ian scrambles to catch it.

”I’ll wear your stupid ring,” he mutters, ”but there ain’t gonna be a fucking sham prison break wedding, okay? You calm your tits and ask me again when I get out, properly, see how you fucking feel about it then, alright?”

He can almost feel the warmth of Ian’s wide smile against the side of his face, even while he still refuses to look at him.

”Alright,” Ian agrees and tries to fit Mickey’s ring onto one of his ridiculous fingers. He ends up threading it onto the chain and securing it around his neck, tucking it down his shirt.

Mickey grumbles a little, unconvincingly, when Ian turns on his side and rests his head on his hand, elbow against the blanket right by Mickey’s ear. He smiles down at him, brilliantly, and slowly rubs his free hand up and down Mickey’s chest.

Mickey barely even thinks about the fact that they’re outside, in public, and he’s supposed to be a married man, and straight, and in prison, when Ian carefully sinks himself down and slots their lips together. He forgets everything but Ian’s taste and smell and feel when he opens up and makes this soft noise at the back of his throat, and fits one of his legs between Mickey’s, his hand big and warm as it trails down the side of his ribcage and then up again, over his heart and throat and cheek. It’s aimless and fucking tender and pretty damned close to perfect. 

It’s almost impossible to stop, too, when Yevgeny suddenly lands against Ian’s back and curiously peeks down at Mickey over his shoulder.

”Ugh,” Mickey grunts and pecks Ian’s bottom lip lightly before settling his head back down on the blanket and squinting up at Yevgeny’s suspicious face, silhouetted against the bright blue sky, ”thought we finally got rid of this guy.”

”Whatcha doin’?” Yevgeny asks, ignoring Mickey’s poor attempt at being funny.

”I’m kissing your dad,” Ian says without hesitation, his voice light and playful when he turns his head to grin at the boy, ”you got a problem with that, squirt?”

”Yuck,” Yevgeny frowns, ”why?”

”’Cause he tastes good,” Ian explains, making Mickey groan and cover his eyes with the hand that isn’t stuck under his embarrassing boyfriend, partner, lover, fiancé, _whatever_ , family, ”and ’cause I love him.”

Mickey huffs and pulls his hand back through his hair, squinting up at Yevgeny to gauge his reaction.

”That why you’re tryna eat each other?” he asks and yelps loudly when Ian attacks his cheek with loud, obnoxious kisses, pretending to bite at his face. He laughs and tries to get away, squirming out of Ian’s hold and running out of reach, wiping his hands over his wet cheek.

”You’ll never catch me!” he taunts before he runs away. Ian laughs and turns back to look down at Mickey, and they just stare at each other for a second before Mickey can feel his lips pulling into a wide grin and Ian quirks an eyebrow in a silent question. Mickey nods.

Ian jumps up on his feet without warning, pulling Mickey up after him. They look around for a moment, casing their surroundings, until they hear distinct giggling coming from a cluster of nearby trees. They share a meaningful look and Ian nods, making a lot of nonsensical command signals that end with him pointing to his left, which Mickey assumes means that he’s gonna _go left_. They attack Yevgeny from both flanks and catch him, easily, and Mickey bends him over his shoulder, grabbing on tightly to his legs so he won’t fall off, and runs out through the field, Ian chasing after.

The game has no rules, it’s mostly just a lot of running around, and it gets a bit rough at times. But Yevgeny is a champ, and he’s fast, and Mickey laughs more than he ever remembers laughing before, even when he was a kid. Ian is beautiful, and absolutely heartbreaking to look at when he starts glancing at his watch more and more until he casually tells Yevgeny that, hey, it’s time to go home, it’s getting late.

Yevgeny doesn’t want to go, or put his shoes back on. Both things easily fixed by Mickey offering to give him a ride, crouching down on the ground for Yevgeny to climb on to his back and cling his arms around his neck.

They walk back through the cemetery, slowly, silently. It’s a little darker now but the birds are fucking singing and Yevgeny is breathing calmly against his neck, pressing his slightly snotty face to Mickey’s reddened skin, right above the collar of his shirt. Mickey holds him in place with one arm around his back and innocently dangles his other hand down his side, and if it’s close enough to Ian’s hand for him to easily grab on to it, then that’s on Ian to decide and take action.

Mickey feels strangely calm about it, until they pass over a slight hill and suddenly, at a distance, they’ve got a clear view of Tony’s car, surrounded by a small group of their people. Ian stops them and turns to Mickey, smiling calmly at Yevgeny over his shoulder.

”Hey, Yevy,” he says, still holding on to Mickey’s hand and caressing the side of it with the pad of his thumb, Mickey swallows and realizes that he’s squeezing his hand so hard he’s probably cutting off his circulation, ”go find mom, alright? I need to talk to your dad for a sec.”

Mickey feels Yevgeny nod, and when Ian looks at him he reluctantly eases up on his death grip and lets go of his hand. Ian puts Yevgeny’s shoes back on while he’s still clinging to Mickey’s back, and when Mickey gingerly sets him down on the ground he takes off without so much as a word and runs down the path to a waving Svetlana, not looking back even once. It’s good, it’s better, Mickey doesn’t want his kid to feel like this is some big, sad separation. They’re gonna see each other next week, and then the week after, and that’s gonna be their lives for at least two more years, maybe more. He doesn’t want Yevgeny to ever feel sad about that, it wouldn’t make any of this easier.

”Hey,” Ian says, softly, bringing Mickey’s attention back to him and here, and now, and Mickey realizes that he’s practically hyperventilating, his body not responding when he tries to tell it to calm the fuck down. 

”Hey, Mick,” Ian says again, but it’s not helping, ”it’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Mickey shakes his head. ”I can’t do it, Ian, I can’t go back.”

Ian looks like he’s about to cry, and Mickey thinks it’s the first time he has in the past 24 hours. He pulls Mickey into a tight, desperate hug, and Mickey can feel him burying his face into his shoulder, feels the dampness of his tears slowly seep through the fabric of his shirts.

”I’m so sorry,” he repeats, like a mantra, ”I’m so fucking sorry.”

Mickey feels something turning to steel inside, watching Ian finally crumble under the weight of his emotions. And he leans back a little and takes Ian’s wet face between his hands, touching their foreheads together.

”It’s fine,” he says, voice surprisingly steady, ”it’s alright.”

Ian’s got tears streaming down his cheeks now, and Mickey can’t really remember ever seeing him like this before. Not even when everything went down with the trip to Terre Haute, when he’d desperately tried to run, and hide, and probably thought Mickey didn’t want to deal with him when he started breaking.

”The kid does not see this,” he says and Ian nods, the corners of his mouth dipping and his hands balling into fists at Mickey’s sides, gripping his shirt, ”I love you, okay? And I’ll see you next week. Right?”

He didn’t mean for it to be a question, but that’s how it comes out, his fucking voice damn near breaking on the last word. Ian winces and bends his head, shuffling his feet a little and turning ever so slightly away before he nuzzles back in, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist.

”Yeah,” he says, voice muffled against Mickey’s shoulder, ”’course.”

Mickey nods and grips at his neck, scratches his blunt nails through the shaved hair up the back of his head, grabs his shoulders and pushes him back a little again so he can kiss him. Ian tightens his hold on Mickey’s waist and tilts his head to the side to get in closer, his nose pressing into Mickey’s cheek.

It’s wet, and sad, and Mickey kinda hates it because it feels like goodbye, but he also really doesn’t want it to stop when Ian pulls back a little, resting their foreheads together with a shaky sigh.

”I’m sorry,” he says again, ”didn’t want it to end like this, wasn’t gonna do this.”

Mickey grins a little, despite himself. ”Would’ve been a little disappointed if you hadn’t made a scene.”

”Fuck you,” Ian scoffs, but the corner of his mouth quirks up and Mickey counts that as a win, ”not making a fucking scene, it’s just you here.”

”If you think they can’t see us, you’re fucking kidding yourself,” Mickey teases but refuses to let go when Ian tries to take a small step back.

”Don’t care,” Ian mutters and kisses him again, this time a little more like it should be. Mickey smiles against his lips and decides that prison, Tony, and the whole fucking world can wait another minute or two, or five, while he takes his time to properly make out with his guy.

He thinks they get maybe three minutes before there’s a loud shout from down the slope, causing them to reluctantly pull apart. Ian takes a step back and pointlessly straightens out the collar on Mickey’s shirt, brushing off his shoulders and smoothing his hands down his chest.

”Tony’s got your uniform,” he says, like he hates the words coming out of his mouth, ”I can’t-, I don’t wanna see-”

”Hey,” Mickey interrupts him, ”don’t worry about that, I’ll change in the car.”

”Asked Tony to cuff you after you’ve left, too,” Ian admits, making a slightly embarrassed face, ”I can’t watch that, Yev shouldn’t see that…”

Mickey nods. ”It’s fine, man, it’s alright.”

Ian takes a deep breath, because this is far from fucking fine. But it is what it is, and if they don’t walk down that hill now, they’re gonna be dragged down later. Ian puts his hands in his pockets as they walk down to the car, side by side, and Mickey tries not to be too disappointed by the foot or so of space maintained between them.

Ian stands back when they reach the others, and Mickey puts on a friendly smile as he hugs Mandy again, complaining loudly about having to do it, (three times in one day, bitch, turning into the fucking Brady Bunch with this bullshit), and then crouches down to bump his fist against Yevgeny’s tiny knuckles, turning it into a slow-mo explosion before tugging lightly at the kid’s ear, making him wince and swat at his hand. He’s about to stand up again when Yevgeny almost knocks him over with a tight hug and Mickey folds his arms around him and closes his eyes, sighs and tries to breathe him in, memorize everything about his kid in this moment. He’s gonna be so big by the time Mickey gets out. 

”Give ’em hell, little man,” he offers his fatherly advice when Yevgeny takes a step back again, ”see you soon.”

Yevgeny nods and tries to dodge out of the way when Mickey ruffles his hair and stands, grasping the kid’s shoulder and pretending to put all his weight on him as he straightens up.

Tony opens the back door to his car, like some kind of valet, and Mickey is just about to climb in when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He practically falls back into Ian’s arms, it has become so easy, so quickly, and he nods nonsensically when Ian’s pressing a kiss to his temple and tries to keep his hands on him even while Mickey climbs into the back of the car. The door is firmly shut behind him and he takes a moment to collect himself before he looks out the window. 

They’re already walking away, Ian visibly trying to distract Yevgeny from what’s happening with a wide smile and what looks like one of his stupid jokes, Yevgeny laughing at his wild gestures. Mickey sniffs and tears his eyes away from their retreating backs when Tony opens the front door and gets in behind the wheel.

”Yep,” he says and Mickey sincerely hopes the guy isn’t gonna try and start some kind of inane conversation, things are bad enough as they are, ”4:25, I called ahead and told them we’re gonna be a little late, on account of the ceremony dragging on longer than expected. It’s all good.”

”Thanks,” Mickey mutters, because he really means it and thinks he should probably say it.

”No problem,” Tony smiles and squints at him through the rear view mirror, ”just gotta make a quick stop somewhere and get you looking the part again.”

Mickey scoffs but keeps his mouth shut, reclining a little in his seat as Tony starts up the car and slowly steers it out the gravel drive and into traffic.

”Funerals are hard,” Tony pipes up after a few minutes of silence, almost sounding like he’s rehearsing their story in case anyone should ask, ”lotta emotions running high, it’s tough. Good to have family and close friends, standing by you, times like that.”

Mickey frowns but then scoots forward in his seat and grabs on to the heavy-duty chicken wire separating him from the front.

”Ey, do me one more favor, alright?” he says and doesn’t waver when Tony meets his eyes through the mirror.

”See, Mickey,” he sighs, looking away, ”’suppose that depends on what it is you want me to do.”

Mickey sucks on his teeth and finds a good edge in the partitioner to rest his forearms on, leaning in closer. ”Nothing bad, alright? Just…”

Mickey’s never in his life met a cop that he trusted, but he’s man enough to own up to this probably being mostly his fault, what with being a criminal and all. He’s different now, and maybe he can admit that Tony isn’t too bad, for a pig.

”Keep an eye on ’em for me?” he asks, scratching uncomfortably at his cheek. ”Just, make sure they’re good?”

Tony beams at him through the mirror. ”No problem, man, always have.”

Mickey nods and then scowls when he thinks of something. 

”But keep your gay fucking hands the fuck away from Ian,” he adds, even though he knows exactly how that makes him sound, ”I hear you even so much as look at him funny and I’ma bust outta prison to personally break every last bone in your body.”

To his surprise, Tony laughs.

”You don’t have to worry about that, Mickey,” he says, shaking his head and smiling carelessly, ”not doing that again. Gallaghers are not for me, I’ve learnt that much.”

Mickey snorts and settles back in his seat, turning his attention out the window and to the city slowly rolling past.

”No sir,” Tony hums, ”takes a stronger man than me to deal with that kinda force of nature… you’re a brave guy, Milkovich.”

Mickey doesn’t answer, mostly because he’s said what he wanted to say and he’s not looking to have an actual conversation with the man, but also because if he started explaining all the ways he’s not only wrong, but also out of his goddamned mind, they’d be here all day. 

Ian’s no force of nature, and Mickey isn’t brave for loving him. Stuff’s always been hard for them, and tumultuous, but Mickey thinks, maybe for the first time, that the only reason this is, is because the universe never once gave them a fucking break. 

Well, fuck that. Mickey’s gonna serve the rest of his sentence, and he’s gonna make that fucking parole, then he’s gonna get out and he’s gonna step back into the life that was meant to be his from the beginning. And the fucking universe can go fuck itself, because Mickey Milkovich is gonna be fucking fine.

 

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> This was _not_ supposed to be this long, but I don't mind. Hope you don't either, and that you're having a really good day.
> 
>  
> 
> [The Supremes](https://youtu.be/1qOiNnK7AFg) in the evening, [Al Green](https://youtu.be/COiIC3A0ROM) in the morning. [loftec.tumblr.com](http://loftec.tumblr.com).


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